Advent of Snow and Love: A Downton Abbey Christmas Anthology
by scathach124
Summary: Christmas is in the air, and so is love. From the hallowed halls of Downton to the modern streets of NYC, truths will be confessed, hearts will break, and general merriment and holiday spirit will ensue. A multiple-pairing treasury for the month of December. Chapter 24: the Final Chapter is up!
1. Tidings of Boredom and Cold

**Hello, wonderful readers! Welcome to _Advent of Snow and Love_. Judging from the title, you have probably guessed that this is a Downton Abbey holiday fic. Of course, it isn't the only one out there, but whatever! I thought I might give this a whirl. ****I don't know if this will just happen to turn out like other Downton holiday stories, but I haven't read a lot of them, I just find recommendations for them online. **

**Let me tell you how (I hope) this is going to work. This fic is going to (hopefully) be updated on a daily basis, one chapter for each day leading up to the 24th of December. Sort of an advent calendar style. It is also an anthology of different pairings; some will be more central, others will be more background. It is also a modern AU. So, basically it is a Modern Holiday Advent Calendar-style Anthology of Downton Abbey Pairings. Love Actually, much?**

**Also, the rating system is a bit iffy with these sort of fics. Therefore, I shall rate each chapter myself before beginning the story.**

**So, let the holiday cheer begin!**

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><p><em>December 1: Tidings of Boredom and Cold<em>

_Pairing: Mary/Matthew_

_Rating: K_

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><p><em>First December in New York, <em>Mary thought to herself. _Isn't this just special?_

Her inside voice was sounding particularly sardonic right now, and being currently surrounded by raucous busybody Americans only contributed to a certain gruffness that Mary had possessed since the morning. She didn't understand why today was the day to be in general disagreement with the world; maybe that was just her natural temperament flaring up. Or perhaps it was because her grandmother's penthouse had been two degrees colder than expected and she had woken up with toes nearly encased in ice.

She grunted a bit when someone's shoulder smashed into hers. Mary turned around just in time to see a three-piece suit (yakking on his mobile, of course) disappear into a store. She shook her head, but continued on her way. A trifle annoying whenever she made contact with a tactless stranger, but she was used to it by now. Especially on busy sidewalks like the one she was on now. She liked to think of Avenue of the Americas as closer to Avenue of the Bruised shoulders.

She had just made a quiet exit out of the 21 Bar where she had sat through a lunch with her grandmother and some wealthy friends, but she had not been particularly enthusiastic about it. She had been, for the past two months, in New York City, but she hadn't made very many new friends. It was Grandmama's great goal to get Mary her own circle of companions, but the parties and outings she had been dragged to were attended by self-centered celebrities or diva-like socialites. Mary wasn't fond of being forced to socialize, and having to do so with narrow minded people was just about unbearable.

By now Mary was passing close to Rockefeller Center, the Mecca to the numerous tourists gathered like pigeons near bread. The infamous Christmas tree in front of the skyscraper was already standing erect. But they hadn't lit it up yet. If Mary could remember correctly, the lighting ceremony was taking place in a few days. She still hadn't decided if she was going to go to that. Grandmama had forewarned her that there would be "more tourists than you could package into Macy's," but saying stuff like that did not always deter Mary. On a few select occasions it did, but that alone would not keep Mary from something she had already set her mind to.

Grandmama's apartment house was located not far from the commercial streets; it was located on a street with many other luxury buildings with opulent facades. Mary could have hailed a taxicab and enjoy a bit of warmth until she reached home, but being able to walk around on her own gave her some peace of mind, even if she had to suffer bumping into the ignorant masses at the same time.

She was able to make it back to the lavish apartment house, first entering through the lobby furnished with a doorman, wide carpets, and round tables topped with huge flower arrangement. The trip in the lift was uneventful, albeit longer than she would have liked, and miraculously she was able to sneak her way into the twenty-room penthouse without any of the staff interrupting her hurried retreat to her bedroom.

Thankful that the penthouse was now a comfortable temperature, Mary shed her heavy pea coat and fashion riding boots, not bothering to set any piece of her ensemble in it's proper place. Feeling the evil spirit of boredom approaching, Mary, still in her stockings, padded over to her laptop. It was charging on the desk, exactly where she had left it. Mary was no technology buff — she actually disliked being so addicted to her MacBook Pro — but she nevertheless had a habit of checking her email a few times a day.

She primarily communicated with her family and friends back home with email. Long distance calling was a hassle (according to her father), and it was simpler in terms of what she communicated: she could say what it was, to the point, and with no awkward pauses. Generally speaking, it was easier, except for the fact that she was expected to reply back. And with nothing of great interest to relay back, such emails were, to put it nicely, lacking meat.

There were two emails waiting for her. One was from Anna. Mary usually replied back to her, since she could trust Anna not to blather back to her parents about anything condscending she said about the egotistical socialites she had to meet up with. Anna's most recent email said:

_Hi Mary. Since it's December and the big tree in Rockefeller Center is being lit soon, I wanted to remind you to take some pics (or maybe a video) of the lighting ceremony. And any other pretty lights you see. John asked this morning if you were planning to go, and I told everyone in New York sees the tree lighting. Do they?_

_Even before we got out of bed, John was asking when we were going to go out and buy Christmas decorations. We don't have any since it's our first year together and in the new flat. We're going out in about fifteen minutes to start shopping and I think John is more excited than I am. You'd hardly believe he's the same man you remember from a few months ago (he's humming carols and he thinks I can't hear him)._

_Remember: lots of pictures!_

_Anna_

Mary smiled a bit — it was the first time she had done so all day. Perhaps she _should_ see the Christmas tree lighting, if only to get some photos for Anna.

She returned to her email inbox to check the second new message. But she hesitated on clicking it open, as her chest tightened for a brief second.

_Sender: Matthew Crawley._

In the two months that she had been out of England, Matthew had sent her three emails. The first one he had sent five hours after the plane had landed in New York. The second one had been sent around Halloween, but Mary did not read it for at least a week. She in return sent him an email consisting of less than one-hundred and fifty words, divided into two paragraphs, dictating only the briefest of updates.

She felt somewhat guilty at not keeping in touch with him more often. They _were_ friends, certainly, and she had promised that she would write to him. Nevertheless, there was a hint of embarrassment whenever Mary thought about composing an email to him. She realized how silly this was, considering that she sent regular mail to Anna and her parents. But with Matthew – she couldn't place a specific word on the feeling, but it was almost intimate. And with their unofficial status as "good friends," she didn't want anything to be close to intimate. Too much could go wrong with that.

Nonetheless, with a sigh, Mary clicked on the email to read.

_Dear Mary,_

_It was really nice to hear back from you after so long. I suppose you are really busy in America, and with Christmas coming up, well, I'll bet everything will be hectic. I hear New York is the place to be in December, with lots going on. You need to write me again and tell me the most amazing things you plan to do._

_In the meantime, there isn't a lot going on over here. Sybil already has plans for Christmas, and your mother talked to her about not doing anything excessively extravagant (she probably wants to make sure you aren't missing anything spectacular). I suspect Edith is going to be going to London soon because that beau of hers has invited her to stay at his place the week of Christmas. Your father is (obviously) apprehensive, but with you gone I can understand that. Then again, I think it's nice that Edith has a partner that can treat her like a queen, since she's bored to death while she's home. _

_As for me, I haven't made any long-term plans, but I think I'm just going to stay here as usual. It just seems easiest, what with you gone and Edith planning to head down to London, just so your parents can have that 'sense of normal' at Christmas. (And partially keeping my mother and your grandmother from tearing each others throat out. Remember last year?) Believe me though, I'd love to follow you to the city and see what the rest of us are missing. I've always thought the idea of spending the holidays in New York to be really glamourous. _

_Just remember to keep having fun. You deserve a nice long holiday. And don't take so long to write back, okay?_

_Matthew_

Mary read over the email twice. She was glad that Matthew took the time to write her from time to time. She just did not feel she deserved it.

The past year had been difficult for both of them, for different reasons. With all that had happened between them, it was a wonder they were still, at least, on communication terms. Mary imagined the nature of their relationship to be similar to that status tab on Facebook, "It's Complicated" or something like that.

She kept the email open to remind her that she should write back (even though the odds would she'd procrastinate in doing so) and abandoned her computer for something else to do. Without her grandmama to herd her around the city for activity, finding a cure for boredom was like searching for a tiny pearl in a snow bank. She had occasionally went out on her own, but as she was no native, she never knew where to search for something to do. Museum's were boring, the park was dull, and she never felt like shopping when she was on her own.

Resigned, she picked up today's copy of _The New York Times_. Normally she was not an avid reader of newspapers – especially in light of recent events – but with American publications she didn't hold much wariness. Any England-related gossip was directed towards the royal family, so she was safe from that here. Ignoring the wild headlines of the front page, she flipped through the large sheets, desperate for anything to catch her interest. There was of course the announcement of the tree lighting, something about a celebrity couple that Mary did not give a hoot about, other similarly dull content.

Ten minutes later, she tossed the paper on the coffee table. There was absolutely nothing to grab her attention. She had had episodes like this in the past, when she felt so bored she felt her brain degenerate into a slug. At home, though, there was usually someone to talk to. Anna, whenever she was not at work, was often a good bet. Her sisters too, as a last resort, though then she'd have to listen to Sybil's feminist rants or Edith drone on about either her newspaper column or her boyfriend (who, in Mary's opinion, should not really be called that, since they lived several counties apart and hadn't gone on a truly private date). Matthew sometimes served as a lifeline, though Mary was embarrassed to admit that she enjoyed talking with him. Not that the two of them conversed face to face for some time. That last time intimate conversation – Mary had to think a bit to remember – was two days before leaving for America.

That last she had spoken with him – the last real time talking, not the simple goodbye he had given her before she gotten into the cab to the airport – had left her feeling very conflicted about staying in America. She had not been prepared to hear just how much Matthew said he was going to miss her. She had simply brushed that off at the time, saying that she'd be forgotten within a week.

Clearly, that hadn't held true. But she wish it had; otherwise, she wouldn't be missing him so much.

"You're an idiot, Mary Crawley," she said to herself. She walked back to the bedroom, opened up her computer, and clicked 'new message.'

_To: Matthew Crawley_

Now, just what was she going to write about?

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><p><strong>Reviews are, as always, welcome. Singing carols in celebration is a bit much.<strong>


	2. Visions of Broken Relationships

_December 2: Visions of Broken Relationships _

_Pairing: __Thomas/Jimmy_

_Rating: T for strong language_

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><p>For the fifth day in a row, Thomas wondered if he should get out of bed.<p>

He felt like a dead animal on the side of the road, splayed out on the wrinkled sheets, deprived of the will to even look at the clock. The sunlight was hitting his bare back, but it didn't make one speck of difference to Thomas: there could be a tornado outside his window and he wouldn't have given a damn. Well, probably.

His stomach growled: he had hardly eaten for the past few days. He hadn't bathed either, and the smell was starting to become noticeable. He just did not have the will to get up and move on. It felt like he would never get past the horrific, embarrassing evening that had robbed him of all confidence and strength.

On the nightstand, his mobile began to vibrate. Thomas was an arm's length away from it, but he did not feel like picking it up would do any good. He knew who it was.

He ignored it. Nonetheless, the phone kept making noise. After five minutes, Thomas grunted in annoyance, slammed his hand on the nightstand, and pressed the 'answer' button.

"Thomas, I've been calling for five fucking minutes. Where the fuck have you been?"

Thomas did not have a reasonable answer to Jimmy's question. He just grunted.

"Are you even out of bed?" Jimmy asked. Thomas grunted again.

An exasperated sigh on the other end. "Fine, then. I'm coming over."

"Jimmy," Thomas groaned. "Please, don't, I really don't need – "

"Yes you do. I'm bringing sandwiches and tea. And detergent. I hope I don't have to pull you out of bed."

Judging from the next sound, Jimmy had cut off the line. Thomas swore into the useless receiver. Why did Jimmy have to act like his fucking nurse? Did he see him as some sort of invalid?

Ten minutes later, the buzzer rang. Thomas knew he didn't have to get up; Jimmy had a spare key.

"Thomas Idiot Barrow, if you aren't out of bed – !"

"I'm getting up, I swear!" Thomas called out in reply. Mustering was willpower remained, he lifted his head off of the mattress in time to Jimmy standing in the bedroom doorway.

"For God's sake, Thomas, have you taken a shower since I last saw you?" Jimmy seemed more exasperbated than his character usually was. "I'd think after a few days of lying in your own smell you'd seriously consider a shower."

Jimmy grabbed ahold of Thomas's arm and pulled him off the sheets. Thomas nearly fell onto the floor. His legs felt as shapeless as a puddle of water.

"Shower, now. Use soap," Jimmy ordered. Thomas stumbled into the bathroom and closed the door before pulling off his boxers.

Five minutes later, he emerged, hair wet and skin red. He did feel slightly better after standing under the scalding water, even though a shower wasn't going to change much. Except the level of body odor. Meanwhile, Jimmy was setting pre-made sandwiches on plates and pouring tea into mugs.

"Thanks for that," Thomas said pointing to the food. He had been living mostly off of soup for the last two days, since that was mostly what remained in the pantry.

"Don't mention it," Jimmy said. "By the way, I'm running all of your clothes through the wash."

"I know," Thomas said. He was wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He sat down and started chewing the tough sandwich.

"Thomas, it's not like Philip was your 'one true love' or whatever. You don't need to act like it's some great travesty."

Thomas angrily swallowed the food in his mouth. "Like you've got any idea of what it's like. You haven't even been Ivy's boyfriend for a month, let alone a year."

"And?" Jimmy sat down in the seat next to him. "You don't have to act like it's the end of the world."

"I feel like it's the end of the fucking universe," Thomas said.

He and Philip Crowborough had been a serious couple for about a year, and they had been good friends since – it was hard to pinpoint an exact date, but Thomas must have considered Philip his friend about two summers before. In Thomas's eyes, Philip was his 'significant other.' They went out together every week, they shared each other's beds, sent love letters, all the silly relationship stuff. But Utopia had been swallowed up by the waves of betrayal as Philip expressed to Thomas that they were "not compatible" without so much as an explanation.

"I have no idea _why_ he would just tell me something like that and break it off right then and there. I dunno if it was the sex, sometimes I can't meet up with up because if work. Honestly, I thought we'd be living together in six months." Thomas stopped to sip some of his tea.

"Maybe he did realize you aren't the one for him," suggested Jimmy.

"Rubbish, Jimmy, he's told me he loves me."

"If you only heard him say that during sex, then it's not as real as saying 'I love you' on some romantic bridge at sunset."

"He said it plenty of times outside of sex," insisted Thomas. Although, if he took the time to consider it long enough, he would not have been able to pinpoint a time when Philip said that he loved him when he was not in bed with him.

"Well, maybe he just needs some time off, or something. You've probably just been acting like a drama queen."

"I've tried calling him, but he ignores me. I stopped calling him yesterday."

Feeling miserable all over again, Thomas took another big bite of his sandwich. He had to chew for a long time to avoid swallowing too quickly and choking to death.

"Mate," Jimmy said, tapping his arm, "if he broke up with you for good, then I suppose you can't do anything but move on. Besides, it's Christmas. There's bound to be some lonely guy on the street you can hook up with."

Thomas gave Jimmy the worst possibly glower he could muster. "I didn't 'hook up' with Philip because he was a lonely guy on the street – "

"Yeah, fine, you met him at a party, and chances are there's going to be another guy looking for that perfect guy at some Christmas party," Jimmy said. He got a sort of mischievous glint in his eye, sort of the 'I'm thinking of pranking a girl' type of look. "Like the one next week …" he suggested, faking casualness.

"Your cousin's annual Christmas party?" Thomas asked. He had heard Jimmy briefly mention such a soirée from last year.

"Yeah. And I'll get you an invitation, but only if you stop whining about Philip. You shouldn't bother with him anymore if he just dumps you like that. He's not worth pursuing."

Thomas rubbed his hands through his damp hair, clawing at his brain to stop conjuring images of lying in bed with Philip again. "I'll try not to."

"Good." Jimmy stood up.

"Oi, where are you going?" Thomas demanded.

"I promised Ivy I'd meet up with her," Jimmy said, grabbing his coat. Thomas scoffed: he knew Ivy, Jimmy's girlfriend, and his immediate thoughts had been an intoxicated mouse.

He hadn't known Jimmy for an obscene amount of time – he had met Philip before he'd crossed paths with Jimmy – but they had already become decent friends. Thomas knew that Jimmy had dated several girls in the past, probably all looking like tiny drunk rodents, but at the first glance Thomas had believe Jimmy was, at least, bisexual. Nothing substantial had proven this theory, as he had never seen Jimmy be intimate with other guys. Nevertheless, Thomas had his suspicions.

Thing was, he had never acted on those assumptions because he had been preoccupied with Philip.

Jimmy saw himself out the door, leaving Thomas alone. He watched the door long after the other man left.

Standing up to search for his mobile, he walked back into his bedroom and picked it up. Finding his photo album, he looked at all of the crazy candids of him and Philip. They ranged from nights at the pub to mornings after sex. Thomas didn't smile while he looked at any of them. He felt utterly defeated: if Philip didn't see those memories as happy times, then he shouldn't either.

Methodically, he began to delete all of those photos, one by one. He made a mental note to delete the ones on Facebook and his computer before throwing off his towel and searching for some clothes. Most of which Jimmy had stuffed into the washing machine.


	3. Deck the Halls with New Decorations

_December 3: Deck the Halls with New Decorations_

_Pairing: Sybil/Tom :)_

_Rating: K+ for mentions of an evil Santa Claus_

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><p>"If we order these by tomorrow, we'll have them by next Thursday." Sybil shoved the catalogue under her mother's nose for the third time that morning. Her index finger was glued onto one of the pictures showing a rather <em>unique<em> product.

"Sybil, what on earth is it?" Cora said, as calmly as she could.

"A snow machine," answered Sybil.

Frankly, she didn't know why she was so excited about seeing one in the catalogue, save for the fact that it was a machine that could make fake snow inside. For the past week and a half she had been flipping through catalogues and scrolling through websites for special Christmas decorations.

"A snow machine?" Cora repeated. "Sybil, you do realize we get quite enough snow outside at this time of year, we don't need any indoors." She added quietly, "besides, it looks like a modern guillotine."

"You did say that we should shop for new decorations this year. All our old ones are old-fashioned — "

"I did not say we were going to replace the entirety of our Christmas decorations with a snow and death machine," Cora pointed out. "We agreed last week we would toss out the broken ornaments and the ugly stuff, and find some pretty things to replace them."

Sybil scowled. "No matter what, Granny will end up ruling over this entire process. I really think we should — "

"Sybil, please, one thing at a time. First things first, clean out the broken ornaments. Then we can decide which of the other ones should go."

Mentally trying to think of a way to continue the argument and failing, Sybil nodded half-heartedly. In hindsight, the snow machine was a bit much (and extremely expensive) but Sybil wanted something new and extravagant that she didn't see year after year. She did love the older decorations, but only because she was reminded of Christmastime when she was a little girl, and seeing them put up made Christmas seem so real. The problem was, some of the decorations were old enough to be in the British Museum. Quite a few ornaments were chipped or scratched or just plain ugly. But no one had taken the time to sort through them and put them in the rubbish bin.

Until Sybil assigned herself the unofficial job of "Downton Decorator." Which, as is seemed now, would involve mostly sifting through moldy cardboard boxes. Although, she did not feel too badly about this task, because it would mean she would uncover the demonic Santa Claus figurine and finally avenge her traumatic experience of tripping down the stairs and landing within inches of its angry troll face.

Sybil left her mother's sitting room and went back up to her room to find her mobile. She had decided to start early on cleaning out the boxes in the upper rooms, but she was going to need help. When she last went up there, Sybil has stopped counting at thirty boxes. By the time she alone went through all of them, Christmas would be over. Her sidekicks therefore would be her friends, Gwen Dawson and Tom Branson.

Well, unbeknownst to anyone but the two of them, she and Tom were more than just 'friends.'

It was a secret she had difficulty concealing most of the time from her parents. To them, Tom was a ragtag yob who spent far too much of his time absorbing political readings. True he was not the type of man most wealthy people would be seen with, but neither was Sybil. And though it had taken a while, unearthing genuine side of him had allowed her to see the diamond under the rough exterior.

She sent an email to Gwen, knowing she would be on her computer at this time. Gwen worked as someone's secretary, but she always kept her mail inbox open. Sybil would hear back by the time she was done calling Tom.

She could have easily just texted Tom, which would avoid any eavesdropping family members discovering their contacting each other. But she wasn't entirely prohibited from contacting him – her parents had discovered that the hard way – so it did not actually matter in what manner she and him communicated with. Besides, her mother had already agreed that Tom was capable of helping out with any task given to him, so therefore she had already given Sybil permission to ask him for help in cleaning out the Christmas decorations. In Sybil's mind, it counted.

Dialing Tom's mobile number, she waited for him to pick up. She fingered a corner of the décor catalogue while, from the receiver, came the annoying dial tone, steady automated ringing. She wasn't too terribly surprised when the voicemail machine answered, although she was anxious to hear Tom's answer.

"Hi, Tom, this is Sybil. I was wondering – if you aren't busy – if you wanted to help me go through all of our old Christmas boxes and throw out old ugly decorations. Okay? Call me back."

Yuck. She hated leaving messages.

While she waited to hear back from Tom and Gwen, Sybil opened up her laptop and started it up. As soon as she was connected to the internet, she logged onto a certain website, a sort of feminist blog and forum. Even if her parents knew about Tom, there was no way they would know about her secret life as a blogger for this website. On the internet, she was known as miss_harem_pants. If she would remember how she came up with those names, she would definitely blog about it.

She occasionally posted long rants about multiple issues that aggravated her, primarily about the existence of modern misogyny and current political issues. It was hard not to constantly sound pissed all the time, but writing, Sybil found, was a good outlet for her distress. It was not at all like Edith's journalism ventures: Sybil wrote purely to discuss and to inform. She did not care to be pointed out as some wealthy child of a near-extinct species. That was why she used a screen name like miss_harem_pants. Some of the authors on the site used normal-sounding names (though those might have been pseudonyms as well).

Edith probably only did it for the publicity. And her "boyfriend."

Gwen emailed her back while Sybil was looking at the latest posts on the feminist website. Apparently Gwen would be available only on next Saturday, but that was good enough for Sybil. She wrote back a quick thank-you and then continued to surf the blog. She wondered how many Christmas-related articles would pop up in the weeks to come, keeping one ear turned towards the door in case either her mother or father were to come calling. If her father knew what she did in her spare time, his face would contort to resemble the evil Santa statue and suffer an aneurysm.

Her mobile did not ring until noon, when Sybil was lounging in the library, also the warmest room in the house. Her papa was out somewhere, and Mama was still in her private sitting room. When she heard Tom's personalized ringtone sound, she inhaled quickly and had to press the answer button a few times due to her sudden excitement.

"Tom!" she exclaimed in a loud whisper. "What have you been doing? I called you an hour ago."

"Sorry, Sybil," Tom said sheepishly. "I took a shift at the garage this morning."

"Oh," Sybil said shortly.

Tom worked odd hours at the car garage outside of the village. He knew cars well, and that was how he made money and spent time when he wasn't educating himself on political corruption. It made for unpunctual communication and arrival on secret dates, however.

"So, you want me to help you cleanse your attic of old Christmas decorations?" Tom asked.

"Yes. If you can. And if you want to," Sybil said.

"I'd like to help you with that Sybil, really. It's not too big of a deal. But are your parents okay with it?"

"Tom, as long as they think that you are hear to help fix the plumbing or the car or something, they are fine. As far as they're concerned, you'll just be here sorting through crappy ornaments."

"'As far as they're concerned,' huh? What are you planning to do up in that attic?" Tom inquired.

Sybil blushed. "No, not that we're – I mean, you will come to help – I didn't actually mean – !"

Tom's laughter cascaded through the receiver. "I'm teasing you Sybil. Yes, I'll help. What time?"

"Gwen is going to help next Saturday and maybe Sunday …"

"Should I come tomorrow? How many boxes are there, exactly?"

"I have no idea. A lot, at least thirty."

"Then I should come every day, starting tomorrow. It sounds like there will be a lot to go through. We shouldn't save it all for one weekend."

Sybil nodded, even though Tom wouldn't say. "That sounds like a jolly good idea. Okay, come tomorrow after ten. We'll just be going through the older decorations and tossing out the broken or ugly ones."

"Won't your grandmother want a say in what constitutes as 'ugly?'" Tom teased again.

"I don't care what she says. She should learn that her old-fashioned décor is too ancient for the twenty-first century."

"I see," Tom said, laughing again. "Anything else I should know?"

"One more thing. Among all the things we are going to be digging through, there is one thing that we must absolutely be careful of."

A pause. "What is that?"

"It's a demon Santa."

Something sounded like a pig snorting on the other side. "Pardon?"

"A Santa Claus statue that apparently plotted to kill me and make it look like an accident."

Apparently, Tom was not sure how to respond diplomatically. "What the – uh, when was this?"

Sybil took a look breath. "I was seven, and it was a week before Christmas. It was really late at night, and I heard this noise, a bell, like the ones they ring to get people to donate money. Anyway, I thought it was Papa doing that thing with the funny elf hat, waving it outside my door, but when I went outside, there wasn't anyone. I swear, it was really dark, but I didn't hear anything else. But I waited for a bit, and I heard the bell ringing again. So I go out in the hall and listen again. When it rang again it sounded like it was downstairs, so I went to the stairs. But while I was walking down, I tripped on something – I don't know what – and I fell down."

"Was it the evil Santa?" interrupted Tom.

"Maybe. I really wasn't hurt too badly, but I was so scared, because it was dark and I thought I was going to die," Sybil said. Then, for a dramatic effect to elicit sympathy from Tom, she made her voice slower and deeper. "I look up, slowly, and I am exactly one inch from this angry face, a troll from the depths of hell. Yes, the demon Santa Claus planned for me to trip and fall to my death. But just in case I survived, his bell, the one he used to summon me from my bed, was raised and ready to strike out my frontal lobe."

There was a very long, very awkward silence between the two of them. Sybil was afraid that Tom had hung up.

"So … did it kill you?"

"Excuse me?" Sybil exclaimed. "I am really alive, in case you didn't notice. I ran, screaming, into my parents' room. They put away the statue for that year, but they forgot about my attempted murder and since then, it has been out every December, standing on the mantle in the drawing room. I hate looking at it, even now."

"But why would a Santa Claus statue want to kill you?"

"When we find it, you can ask it. I'm not going anywhere near it once it is out in the open."

"Alright, then, Sybil. Would you like me to bring the salt and the garlic?"

"Eh, what?"

"Sybil, it'll be fine. I'll protect you from the evil Saint Nicholas vessel."

Sybil breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, Tom."

"No problem," Tom said.

"One more thing," Sybil said hurriedly, before Tom could hang up.

"What is it?"

"Please bring that salt. And a knife."

Tom would not stop laughing to himself for two hours afterwards.

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><p><strong>The evil Santa Claus incident is based on a true story, from the life of yours truly. I still have that statue, and it really looks like a troll from Hell. It is so evilly sinister and ugly that no Christmas anthology would be complete without it.<strong>


	4. Love Wants to Come Down for Christmas

**I am so very sorry for the missing update yesterday. I could go on about the reason (which was broken router) but that not why you are here, is it?**

**That being said, don't be upset if I don't post on a daily basis. I am not an entity purely based inside my fanfiction account, so I have to deal with the outside world as well (ugh).**

_December 5: Love Wants to Come Down For Christmas_

_Pairing: Edith/Michael_

_Rated K+ for general angsty stuffings_

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><p>Even before Papa opened his newspaper, Edith was expecting him to say something regarding her most recent article.<p>

At breakfast, he read the same exact paper that Michael Gregson was editor of, and the one that Edith sometimes wrote for. She knew that somewhere inside her article was waiting to be read, then scrutinized mercilessly by her papa. It was the usual progression of events: he read the front page articles, then turned inside, scanned the titles, caught Edith's name, then proceeded to read, mentally evaluating the content of the writing.

Edith waited for that disparaging moment with bated breath, pretending to be nonchalant about the situation. She had been told multiple times, by multiple people, not to be bothered by critics and people who hated on articles for a living. But if one of those people were her father, then it was his opinion that especially mattered. If she wrote something that upset him horribly, then she'd never hear the end of it. That was a thought that sent her into a small panic before every time she submitted an article for publishing.

She steadied herself as he flipped the paper over, done with the important front-cover stories, and ran his eyes over the ink as smoothly as a figure skater on ice. Edith anxiously traced his eyes and where on the page they were reading. She knew exactly where her article was. Knowing that watching him read her piece would only give her an accelerated heartbeat, so she turned away and focused on a half-eaten plate of eggs. She also began to think about what Michael had asked her about a week before: did she want to stay at his flat in London the week of Christmas?

She heard an intake of breath, of someone about to speak, and her heart skipped a beat.

"Papa, just so you're aware, Tom Branson is coming to help me clean out some of the old Christmas decoration boxes. You remember, we talked about getting rid of some of them?"

Robert gave an affirmative sound. Edith breathed.

"Just so you're aware," Robert said pointedly, "only throw out the broken ones. Your grandmother will want a say in which of the old ones go."

Only Edith detected Sybil's eye roll.

"Well, even she would cringe at seeing some of that junk up again," Sybil said.

"Oh, really?" Edith noted, "You think she'll change her mind after fifty years of having some of those decorations?"

"Yes. It's more than ten years into the twenty-first century, and even she knows that," Sybil said. She finished her juice in one long gulp and then walked out, leaving Edith to suffer through her papa's critique alone.

Trying to keep her mind off of what her father was going to say, Edith thought about Michael's offer to let her stay with him for the week of Christmas in London. She seriously thought that she would be accepting that offer (although she wished often to make a permanent move with him). Even if Mary was already gone, it would not be as if Edith would be absent for long. Her parents would survive without her for a week, and they had Sybil and Matthew to keep them company. And Isobel Crawley would no doubt keep Granny occupied until New Year's.

"Well then, Edith," Robert said suddenly. Edith's head shot up, and she stared at her father with tense anticipation.

"Quite an article you have written here," he started.

"Is it?" Edith answered nervously. She wasn't sure how to gauge his emotion about the piece, whether it was distaste or slight interest.

Robert nodded. "I'm not entirely sure how much agree with what you have written, but nonetheless your language is coherent and your ideas are well developed."

He took a sip of tea. Edith waited for him to say something else, but he seemed to have moved onto another section of the paper. She let out a long breath: she hadn't unhinged him just yet.

"Oh, and on a related note, have you told Mr Gregson of your Christmas plans?" added Robert.

"What do you mean?" Edith asked.

"I mean, have you given him an answer as to what you are doing the week of Christmas?"

Edith, either due to a sixth sense or the knowledge that her father was not head-over-heels with delight about Michael Gregson, began to grow suspicious. "Are you implying something?"

Robert feigned defense. "What? Of course not. I was simply asking a question, nothing more."

Edith felt frustration rising inner face. Her father's constant pushing often made her feel like any relationship she got into was doomed. He had this same attitude the last time she had declared someone her significant other, and though that relationship had ended miserably, his relief at its termination effectively caused her to stop speaking to him civilly for several weeks.

"Do you not want me to stay with him for Christmas?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Robert folded the newspaper aggressively and turned to look his middle daughter in the eye. "Edith, listen to me very carefully. It's not a good idea to stay with Mr Gregson for an entire week in his house – !"

"What are you so upset about?" Edith interjected. "Are you really trying to keep me hostage at home?"

"Edith, that is not what I am implying. I am simply telling you —"

"Well, I don't think I need to hear it," Edith interrupted again. She released an exasperated sigh. "Why is it so difficult to please you? You tell me to go out sometimes, be with people, but when I'm invited to London for Christmas you want to keep me locked up inside my own home like some princess in a book!"

"That is not at all what I want!" Her father's voice raised dangerously. "I want you to be safe and happy, and to me, staying with a man you don't know very well does not merit anything good."

"I know Michael well, I'll have you know, and he is _not_ a stranger to me. I _want_ to stay with him for Christmas, and if you think that your dislike for him is going to keep me away, I'm very sorry, but you are wrong!"

With that, Edith threw down her napkin for dramatic effect and stomped out of the dining room. Her father made no attempt to call her back.

It really was not fair: once upon a time, she hadn't had anyone to pay her attention. Boyfriends were a devastatingly horrid part of her life that, no matter what happened, she both wished to have and never wanted to think about again. She wouldn't force herself to think about Patrick again – that was a disaster story of another day and age – but her breakup of over a year ago still haunted her. The humiliating event, in front of her family, was enough to send Edith into a spiral of despair. Fate had taken pity on her, though, and sent Michael Gregson her way, along with a chance to write a regular column in Michael's paper. Life was good for the most part, until someone decided that it wasn't good enough, and since Edith and Michael had declared themselves to be in a (somewhat long-distance) relationship, her father was hell-bent on letting Edith know did not approve.

She had not seen Michael for about three weeks: that was when he had asked her to join him for Christmas. She had been to his home in London a few times before for dinner, a nice cosy flat on a picturesque street. With a little bit of imagination, Edith could picture in her head how beautiful it would look when it was decorated. Michael had, however, said he was bad at decorating, and if he had Edith helping him out, he could go the grave knowing that he had made his flat look pretty for once.

Edith considered talking to her mother about going with Michael, but she knew her father would have the final say between the two of them. Mama said that, since Mary was gone, "it would be nice to have the remainder of our family here during the holidays." But Edith had spent the last two decades of Christmases with her family, so surely she should be permitted to spend one Christmas away from them. She had even said she would be home by New Years Eve, and next year she would stay at home for Christmas, but nothing was persuading anyone.

There were many times in her life when Edith felt absolutely useless. This was one of those times.

Hoping to take her mind off of things, Edith collected her car keys, slid on her gloves and coat, and slipped unseen out the door. She felt the morning wind chill biting and scratching as she walked to the garage where her lovely car was waiting. She adored the car that her parents had bought her last Christmas: with it, she could go anywhere, and it was the closest thing she had to a genuine golden ticket to freedom.

Going for drives was a sort of recreation for her, even before she could drive. With her own one now, she did not have to borrow one of the chauffeur-driven Chryslers. In the summertime she loved to drive with the top down, enjoying the bright views of the country all around her. It was getting much colder now, though, and Edith did not think it recreational to drive with icicles forming from her nostrils. After putting the top up, Edith started up the car and drove it off of the estate as fast as she could.

She drove down the long stretch of road that ran through the village. She passed through the small hamlet, and once outside, increased her speed to the legal limit. There stark, plain countryside as far as the eye could see. North England was grey and barren in the winter, an iceless Arctic. Edith imagined, right now, heading down to London, not stopping for anything until she got to the colored lights and tall towers of the city. To run away from her family determined to keep her away from the man she genuinely loved – it seemed a very storybook-like plot. The only thing that kept her from doing that right now was that she hated to be dishonorable. If only she had more gumption to actively disobey her parents as Sybil did; she might taste freedom more often.

But she loved Michael: she was completely and wholly sure of that fact. She needed to feel his love at Christmas. She felt like that would give her something she had been missing for several Decembers in a row. She wasn't sure of that missing feeling, but something – perhaps someone from above – was telling her that she would find that in London with Michael by her side.

Edith was hardly a selfish girl, but what she wanted most for Christmas was to have just one pair of eyes fixated on her, only her. Michael could give that to her. Even if she was forbidden from ever seeing him again, she would cherish that one Christmas with him.


	5. I'll be in New York for Christmas

**AN: I realize I have been very late in submitting these, however, I'm taking the weekend to write them. They probably will go through a few edits, so check back and reread to see if anything has changed.**

_December 5: I'll be in New York for Christmas_

_Pairing: Mary/Matthew_

_Rating: K_

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><p>"I've always thought this tree was like your other grandmother in some ways," Martha Levinson told her oldest granddaughter. The two of them were standing in front of the Christmas tree in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where hung dozens of cream-faced angels and the tiny Nativity setting.<p>

"And how can you compare my grandmother to a Neapolitan Baroque crèche?" Mary humorously inquired.

"Well, they're both old," Grandmama jokingly began. "But also, more seriously, Violet and this tree are symbols of tradition. Having this mess of angels on a ten-foot tree is a tradition that's been around for more than fifty years. It'll probably be here forever. Tradition is hard to destroy, I have to admit."

Mary smiled a tad at this. She felt in better spirits today for some reason. Presently, it was just her grandmama and her perusing the galleries at the Metropolitan, which the Levinsons just happened to be great benefactors of.

"New York in December is just one big time of pulling out the old lights and putting them exactly where they were last year," Grandmama continued. "That's was the New Yorkers like, and that's what the tourists like. They see the pictures, they think, 'I want to see that next year,' they buy plane tickets, they get what they want."

"Do you like to see the same thing every year?" Mary asked. She knew her grandmama's view on tradition: it was the complete opposite of her more conservative family.

"You know me," Grandmama said with a short pause, "I like to see things keep moving. Like the subway, it just shouldn't stop for anything. But then again, seeing all the lights and trees and candy boxes from years past makes me feel that nice little bit of nostalgia. My friend Lily told me once that we like seeing old decorations each and every year because it reminds us of happy memories, of the peace and fun of Christmas."

"You might want to write that all down for Sybil," Mary said. "She's determined to get rid of some of our older decorations sitting in the upper rooms at Downton."

"Well, some of your decorations are uglier than a nutcracker," quipped Grandmama.

In the Patrons' Lounge, waiting for afternoon tea to arrive, Mary snuck a quick look at her phone. She knew that Anna had received the photos and video of the tree lighting at Rockefeller that Mary had bothered to take. That had been a nice night, actually: although most of the crowd had been outside, Mary had found a café with some views towards the Christmas tree. She wasn't used to utilizing the camera on her phone, but she learned to position the phone steadily on a windowsill just before the tree was illuminated in a blinding sparkle of light.

And in few seconds of impulsive decision-making, after sending the photos and videos to Anna, she sent them again, to Matthew.

It was like sending something in the post: once she had hit 'send' she wondered whether or not it was a good idea. Sometimes she wished there was a way to retract sent emails from recipients' email inboxes, or that she knew how to hack someone's account to delete embarrassing mail.

What she was more anxious about was what Matthew would write back. He would not write back anything mean-spirited — he wasn't that type of person at all. But the way Matthew wrote emails to her, such as the most recent one from a few days ago, it was as if he was sitting right beside her and striking up a conversation. There was a level of familiarity that he put into writing them, and she liked that — though sometimes it was hard to just read it and imagine his voice saying the words instead of hearing him speak them aloud.

God, what was she thinking?

She opened up her email inbox (which took a good five minutes due to the lack of internet signals) and waited for any notifications to load. There was only one unread message, and it was from Matthew.

Mary wondered if she should read the email quickly before eating, or put it away and wait until she got home. If she chose to wait, the suspense would definitely aggravate her. But she also did not want other people to see her reaction when she read his words. Her grandmama would ask questions if she noticed Mary making even the slightest face.

Against her heart's unrealized desire, Mary put her phone away and tried to push the unread email out of her thoughts. It took a few minutes, but eventually the unread email was, for a time, neglected.

Mary later realized that she had made the right choice. As soon as she got back to Grandmama's apartment, she read the email. Her jaw hung like a stocking above a fireplace.

_Dear Mary,_

_That was really nice of you to send the photos and the video you took at Rockefeller Center a few days ago. I've never seen that before, and I wasn't expecting that you'd send me those sorts of things, but thank you. It was a pretty good video, (even though you might want to fix the photos in an editor, because I can barely see the tree)._

_I just received some very bizarre news from my boss today, and you are also going to think this opportunistically strange: I'm being sent to New York City for work purposes next week. I won't bore you with the details, but the important part is that I'll be in the same city as you from the 16th to the 21st. I have no idea if my boss knows that one of my friends is in New York, but I suppose that's fate._

_I understand if you're busy, but as it has been a few months since I last saw you, it would be nice to meet up with you, even if it's just once while I'm there. I will wait until I hear back from you before making any plans, though. And I'm sorry if this is too spontaneous for you; the boss just sicced this on me as I was getting ready to leave work. _

_Matthew_

"Mary, you should close your mouth before Santa Claus thinks that's someone's chimney," Grandmama said. She peered close at the email, before Mary could turn the phone off.

"I see. So you're good friend Matthew is going to be in New York soon?" she said cheerfully.

"Apparently," Mary said flatly. "It's just for work."

"Mary, no one comes to New York in December just 'for work,'" Grandmama said seriously. "Now, you text or mail or whatever him back and tell him not to bother booking a hotel."

I didn't take long for Mary to understand what her grandmama had in mind. "What?" she cried.

"No buts, Mary. He's your friend, you're in New York, and I have quite a few bedrooms going to waste."

She, in the lightest sense, was stunned. How could it 'just so happen' that Matthew was going to be within miles of her instead of an ocean away? Why did these Christmas miracles just have to happen so perfectly?

_Oh God, I'm going to see Matthew again._

That single thought sent her brain into a flurry of reminiscing, imagining, and thinking up ideas about what to do with Matthew when he was were. Yes, of course she wanted to spend time with him. She had missing him this entire time she had been in hiding: why else would her heart be beating so violently at the thought of seeing him again?

She hated admitting she was still, partially, in love with him.

She brought her computer into the sitting room and hurriedly began to type an email in reply. It was basic in it's language: yes, you can come, you can stay with my grandmother and I, I'm available almost all the time.

"Grandmama, what do you think I should do with Matthew?" she asked.

"Well, he gets here the week before Christmas, so there won't be any shortage of things to see and do," Grandmama answered. She stood next to Mary and read over the email draft. "What do you think he would like to do?"

"How should I know?" Mary said, somewhat perplexed.

"He's your friend," Grandmama said.

"Well, he's not my best friend. And we never talked about our personal selves that often," Mary countered.

"Then I think it's time to do so," Grandmama said. She sat down next to Mary on the sofa. "Call it an old woman's mental aberration, but I sense that he's going to get your Christmas present while he's here. It would be in your favor to drop a few hints here and there."

Mary let out a long sigh of irritation. "Grandmama, you don't understand. Matthew's had a tough year, even worse than I've had it. Don't you think that he deserves some space?"

Grandmama scoffed. "How long has it been? Almost a year? You can probably afford to give Matthew some attention. The way I see it, he wants to see you as much as you want to see him."

Mary sat in dumbfound silence.

"Mary, your relationship with Matthew is not like the Metropolitan tree. It can't stay the same forever; you need to realize that he is in fact very dear to you."

"What makes you say that out of the blue?" Mary asked. She was never used to having these conversations with anyone else except her mother. It must be an American custom to talk about unrequited love so openly.

"Why else were you so stunned to read about his coming over here?" Grandmama said, laughing. "Besides, you and him have a past, and you can't discard a past like a candy wrapper, even when you can't taste the sweet stuff anymore. I think it's time to make amends. And no, don't think I'm implying you should get together again, because I know you won't. But it is about time you stop thinking of yourselves as 'friends' and more like 'good friends who are very special to each other.'"

"Do you think that he'll be willing to go back being, as you say, 'good friends who are very special to each other?'" Mary asked.

"I think he already knows that's how you two are," Grandmama said with a twinkle in her eye.


	6. Away in the Attic

_December 6: Away in the Attic_

_Pairing: Sybil/Tom_

_Rating: K+ for way too much laughing while writing this._

* * *

><p>About four large ornament crates down, two hundred more large boxes and ten thousand smaller ones to go. Sybil was having a hard time realizing that it might take them centuries to sort everything.<p>

Even so, they had made noticeable progress. For the past two days, she and Tom had secluded themselves within the top floor rooms of the Abbey, pulling out ornaments and decorations of all shapes and sizes and ranging in taste from pretty nice to garish. They had put the chipped or cracked ornaments in bubble-wrap lined rubbish bags, and though they had already filled about ten with anything that looked either too ancient to handle, decrepit, or (Sybil's plan of action) remotely ugly. They were opening up any crates labels 'tree ornaments' since the tree would be arriving in a few days and they wanted the ornaments to be sorted through as quickly as possible.

Which meant that the Santa Claus statue that was terrorizing the dark corners of Sybil's wild imagination was still hidden somewhere, perhaps waiting to strike with lethal force. Sybil always wanted Tom in her sight to ensure that, to avoid cliché slasher film plots, he would not be the statue's first victim of the season.

"Do you always use all of this stuff in decorating your house?" Tom asked.

"Not everything at once," Sybil replied. "It takes a long time to decorate, so sometimes we don't even open certain boxes."

"I don't think some of these were opened since the beginning of the last century," quipped Tom. "When is Gwen going to get here?" he added.

"Not until after twelve," Sybil said.

"Maybe if we find evil St. Nick today we can show it to her," Tom joked, smiling devilishly.

"Shut up, Tom," Sybil groaned. "It's a serious matter. When we started finding boxes with figurines and such, we'll need to be on guard."

"Right. And we'll also need to remember to surround those boxes with salt."

_Thunk._

Sybil jumped at the low, hard noise. Her eyes darted violently around the attic. "Oh God, what was that?" she screeched. "Is it you? I swear, is it – ?"

"Sybil, calm down," Tom said. "One of the tall boxes fell over."

"Fell? Or something knocked it over, perhaps?" Sybil noted.

"Sybil, are you really afraid that a Santa statue is going to murder you?" Tom asked.

"Well … yes," Sybil admitted sheepishly.

Tom smiled at her, shaking his head. "Sybil, even if it did want to kill you, you're twice as big as you were when you were seven. You also have me, so it would have to go through me before it tries anything funny on you."

"Just as well I have you as my knight in shining armour," Sybil replied, smacking Tom playfully on the shoulder. "C'mon, we've got work to do."

The morning was spent doing the usual drudgery and labor that had dictated their days for the past week. Yet as the worked through the many crates and inspected each ornament, big or small, they talked about whatever came to mind: memories of Christmas past, the tales that Tom's mum used to tell him of spirits that came alive during the winter, Sybil's own stories of different ornaments and how the family had attained them. They laughed together while Sybil's phone played Christmas songs from a radio app, sometimes singing along with the sillier ones. To Sybil, she had never been able to act as childish in front of her family in a long time: Mary always called her immature, and Edith simply looked at her as if she ought to be in a nineteenth-century mental hospital. Sybil was perfectly capable of acting serious and mature, but what fun was Christmas if one couldn't regress to a childlike-state of mind, or laugh about whatever came to mind? That was why Sybil loved Christmas as a little girl: life was never too complicated, and when she saw the decorations being put up or tasting the seasonal treats that the cook concocted, she felt happier than she did any other time of the year. Except for the year that she had been targeted by the demon Santa, Sybil had few bad memories that came to mind when she thought of Christmas (and it was usually her older sisters' fault).

Around noon, they were joined in the attic by Gwen and Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper. Mrs Hughes, who Sybil believe did not have a stingy bone in her body, had brought up a full lunch for all of them, and as they ate, Sybil and Tom briefed Gwen on what they had already done so far, and what to with the broken ornaments, so on and so forth.

"And if you see a troll-faced Santa statue, holler and run for your life." Tom cracked himself up as Sybil glared at him.

"What?" Gwen stared at the two of them as if they were monkeys.

"I'll explain later," Sybil concluded, swatting Tom upside the head.

They all set off to work, and with the three of them the work seemed to go through a lot faster. Gwen was a nimble worker, and she did not need to take more than a few seconds to determine the state of an ornament. There was still chatter among them, but now that Gwen had joined the party, the conversation between Sybil and Tom was less personal. Gwen was well aware that Sybil and Tom were a secret couple, but she never pried into their lives; she wasn't one for knowing other people's secrets. Which Sybil considered to be an asset that her parents sorely needed if they wanted to stay on good terms with her.

Miraculously, they managed to get through most, if not all, the crates containing the tree ornaments. They had filled about fifteen rubbish bags with discarded ornaments, and Sybil estimated she had dropped at least two trouser sizes just from delivering the bags down three stories, then running back up again, doing that over again about five times. By the time she reached the attic the last time, Sybil desperately wanted a lift to be installed inside the house.

"I suppose that's my exercise for the week," Gwen said, lying down on the attic floor next to Sybil. Tom reappeared after transporting the last bag downstairs, and he stood over the two of them.

"You both look like snow angels, all spread out like that," he remarked. Sybil giggled.

"When is it going to snow, anyway?" Gwen asked. "Isn't it a little late this year?"

"That's global warming for you," Tom said. "But when we do get snow, it will probably look like a winter wasteland instead of a wonderland."

"Like near the end of _Frozen,_ probably," Sybil added. "Only we'd have to wait for it all to melt instead of having someone just zap it away."

"That is the case, since your sister the ice queen is in America," commented Tom.

Sybil doubled over with laughter. She hated it when Tom made her laugh uncontrollably; she knew how ludicrous her horse laugh sounded, and she was well aware of the redness in her cheeks.

_Creak._

"What was that?" Gwen wondered aloud.

"What? That sound?" Tom asked.

"It's someone moving downstairs, probably," Sybil shrugged. "This house is so old it's a wonder no one has gone crashing through the floorboards."

"Well, it's awfully loud if it is someone moving downstairs," Gwen said. "Tom, didn't you close the door by the stairs.

"Yeah," Tom said slowly, "but …"

_Creak._

"There's no one else up here, is there?" Sybil asked.

"No, I don't think so," Tom answered. Gwen nodded her head in agreement.

Sybil froze from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

"Sybil, you don't really think — " Tom started.

"It's the demon Santa," Sybil whispered raspily.

"What is this 'demon Santa?'" Gwen asked. "You said it was a statue, Tom. Why's Sybil going into shock?"

"Long story, short version: ugly Santa statue tries to kill Sybil at age seven and make it look like an accident," Tom said breathlessly.

Gwen gaped at Tom. "Are you mental?"

_Creak. Creak creak creak._

"It's coming closer," Sybil said, trembling.

_Creak creak creak._

"Sybil, I'm really sorry about this —"

"Tom, what is it?"

"I don't have my pocket knife with me."

_Creak._

"You don't?"

"And I don't have the salt either."

_Creak._

"You're a bloody idiot!"

"Will the two of you shut up, for God's sake!" Gwen hushed.

_Creak creak creak. Creak creak creak._

"Sybil, my arm is going to break if you don't let go."

"Tom!"

_Creak._

"Woof."

Isis popped her head up above a cardboard box, tongue hanging lazily. Seeing the three terrified humans huddled together, she leaped over some of the boxes and bounded towards them, jumping on top of Gwen and smothering her liberally with dog kisses.

"Isis! You evil dog!" cried Sybil. Isis cocked her head to the side: she wasn't used to being yelled at by Sybil.

"Easy, easy," Tom said, gently touching her shoulder. Isis padded over to Tom, sniffed his hand, and let herself be scratched behind the ears.

"She must have came up here when we were bringing the ornament bags down," Gwen said.

"You silly dog," Tom crooned, smiling down at the dog. "Where's your papa, huh? Let's go down and find him."

Isis barked in agreement, then followed Tom downstairs.

"That's it. Isis is not getting anything from me this year," Sybil decided.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm sorry. I had to. Isis scaring Sybil half to death, followed by some TomIsis. I was giggling to myself while I was writing this.**


	7. What Madness is This?

_December 7: What Madness is This?_

_Pairing: Edith/Michael_

_Rating: K+ mostly for language on Sybil's part and general angsty stuff_

* * *

><p>Early in the morning, there were nearly a dozen men and one twenty foot tree in the main hall of the Abbey. Edith wondered every year where the tree came from and how, every single time, they managed to fit it through the front door.<p>

"It's a rather round tree this year," Cora remarked. Everyone in the family was standing around the it, recently set in its stand, erect and quite bushy.

"There are a lot of branches," Sybil said, pretending to professionally inspect the large spruce. "But there's a hole on that side, and I think the top needs just a bit of shaping — "

"Thank you, Sybil," Cora finished. "I do see there are a lot of branches. I hope that you didn't discard too many of the ornaments, we don't want the tree to look bare."

"Of course not," Sybil said.

"You did bring a lot of bags down from the attic," Edith said.

"Yes, Tom and I were very productive," Sybil said proudly.

"I bet," Edith said.

"It's not like you helped at all," Sybil shot back.

"Girls, that's enough," Robert said sternly.

Both girls fell reluctantly silent. Edith noticed Sybil was giving the dog a very dirty look. She smirked: she knew what had happened up in the attic with Tom and Gwen. The fearless Sybil being cowed by a dog had sent Edith into hysterics the previous day, when Sybil relayed the afternoon's adventure to the rest of the family.

Mr Carson tapped Edith's shoulder. "There's a telephone call waiting for you," he told her.

"From whom?" she asked. Suddenly, a thought popped into her head: what if it was Michael?

Quickly she added to Mr Carson, "Never mind, I'll figure it out." She slipped away, hoping no one, especially her father, would detect her absence.

One of the stationary home phone sets was located just by the front door. Edith picked up the phone (which was so elementary in design that it was still connected with a cord to the handset) and answered the call.

"Good morning, Edith," Michael began.

"Hello Michael," Edith replied. She knew what he was calling for, and so far she did not have the answer either of them wanted to hear. Papa had not relented yet.

"Edith, I don't want to push you, and I understand if you don't yet know want to do — "

"Michael, I do want to stay with you for Christmas, but my father is fixated on keeping me here. I don't know what to say to him to make him give up and let me go." Edith felt tears fill up in her eyes and her throat grew hoarse.

"Edith, listen to me, just listen," Michael said calmly through the receiver. "It is not the end of the world if he doesn't let you come. I'll still love you no matter where you are for Christmas. Do you understand?"

"I do understand," Edith said. "But all I want for Christmas is to spend time with you without Papa or anyone else watching. That's all I want."

"That's what I want as well," Michael said back. "But love will find a way."

"Edith." Papa's voice broke through the sweetness of the moment. Edith pulled the phone away from her ear and turned to face Papa.

"Who are you talking to?"

Edith hesitated: she wasn't looking forward to Papa's reaction, but what else did she have to be afraid of? "I'm talking with Michael," she said to him.

"Oh, Edith!" Papa began to grow red in the face. "Haven't we beaten his horse to death by now?"

"No, we have not!" Edith yelled back, not bothering to listen to what Michael, confused to what was happening, said. "It's my decision, and I'm a grown woman. You can't tell me what to do with my life simply because you don't like Michael."

"Edith, I've told you before, my impression of Mr Gregson has nothing to do with not allowing you to stay with him."

"Then why is it that you won't let me? I trust Michael fully, and he respects me. My safety isn't something that you need to concern yourself with."

"Of course it is," Papa countered. "I am your father, and no matter how old you are, I will always be concerned about your safety."

"Edith, are you alright?" Michael sounded somewhat panicked. Edith turned away from her father and put the receiver back to her ear.

"It's nothing, Michael, I'm just speaking with my father," she told him.

There was a very brief pause on the other end, before a short intake of breath. Michael said, finally, "Edith, can I talk to your father, please?"

"What?"

"Just hand the phone to him. I'd like to speak with him."

Edith frowned, but turned back to her father, who was also frowning a bit. She ignored his glower and said, "Michael wants to speak with you. Just please be polite to him."

Papa was stunned, and judging from his face alone, perhaps even flabbergasted, but he took the phone from Edith. She backed away.

"Yes?" Papa began. Edith heard Michael's greeting on the other end, but she couldn't determine exact words. He seemed to be talking very diplomatically, as Papa hadn't lashed out yet. But the anxiety was eating her away, and she couldn't bear to stay any longer. She didn't want to be struck down by any bad news. She left her father standing in the front hallway alone and joined Sybil for breakfast.

"So," Sybil said shortly.

"So what?" Edith returned.

Sybil chewed on corner of her piece of toast and shrugged. "Don't be like that. I was just trying to start a conversation that's all."

"You need to come up with a better conversation starter," Edith said. She poured herself some tea.

"Matthew's going to be going to New York for some business stuff," Sybil commented.

"I know," Edith said. She looked up at Sybil and realized that her sister was wiggling her eyebrows as if hinting at something forbidden.

"What are you doing?" Edith asked crudely.

"Mary's going to be so electrified when she sees Matthew again," Sybil said, grinning. "She hasn't said anything, but I bet she misses him like crazy."

Edith brought her voice down before whispering harshly, "What the bloody hell are you on about?"

Sybil kept on grinning like a young boy with too many secrets.

"Sybil, you are absolutely mental," Edith said, enunciating every word.

There was a lapse in the conversation. Edith kept one ear turned towards the door, tense at the thought of her father angrily raising his voice even once. She realized she was gripping her fork so tightly her knuckles were turning white, and she released the utensil before Sybil could see.

"You know, I dunno how good your chances are," Sybil mentioned out of the blue.

"Of what?" Edith said.

"Dummy," Sybil said with a look that conveyed 'stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about'. "The thing is, what with Mary and that other wacko newspaper guy, I don't think Papa is too enthusiastic about you being so close to someone else who works in news."

"Michael is the exact opposite of that megalomanic that Mary got herself tied up with," Edith retorted.

"I know that, and I think everybody else does. But Papa is just reluctant to accept that. He doesn't want you to go off to New York for an unspecified amount of time because some dickhead decides to blackmail you."

Edith was about to lash out, but Sybil raised her hand. "Wait. Stop. I realize that Michael is not that type of person, and your reasons for staying with him are completely different. But I'm just saying there's a good reason behind Papa's hesitation. If he was something other than a newspaper editor, I bet you'd already be packing your bags and booking that train ticket to London."

For some bizarre reason, Sybil's speech seemed to ring true with Edith. Obviously, Mary's business with Richard Carlisle had left Papa in a frenzied panic, and becoming well acquainted with another man in the same business was perhaps not a move Edith would have made if she could help it. Was taking her holiday with Michael too much for Papa to really handle? God, how was she to know? Was she truly supposed to choose between spending time with her loved one or keeping Papa's blood pressure under control?

"Edith," Papa said, appearing in the doorway. Both girls turned to look at him, and Edith wondered if the pressure in her eyes could be see from where he was standing.

"Come out here," he said. "I need to talk to you."

Edith nodded grimly as she slid her chair outwards, then stood up. She followed Papa like she was being led to the gallows.

Papa stopped right next to the tree, and Edith stood, apprehensively, in front of him. She was rigid with nerves, and wondered how on earth was she going to relax. She wished she had something to hold on to.

"Edith, I just want to tell you that, for Christmas, I want you to be happy. That's all I want," Papa started.

"Please, just tell me something new," pleaded Edith. She didn't want to hear empty words of her being happy for Christmas when Papa wouldn't let her near Michael.

"Alright, then," Papa continued. "I was hoping very much that you would stay with us for Christmas, but if you do want to stay with Mr Gregson – ahem, Michael, I mean – then you are free to do so."

Edith was astonished beyond measure. What had Michael said to Papa to make him surrender? No, that did not matter – she could be with Michael for Christmas! She threw her arms around Papa and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Papa," she cried, "thank you so much."

"Yes, I know, but I have something else to say," he added. Edith pulled away.

"If there happens to be any 'funny things' going on while you are in London, and there comes to be any evidence of it, then I will do everything in my power to make sure you do not contact Michael again. Am I clear?"

"Yes, like crystal," Edith said.

She ran back to the telephone to tell Michael.


	8. Silent Night, Confessions Night

_December 8: Silent Night, Confessions Night_

_Pairing: Thomas/Jimmy_

_Rating: T for language and brief talk of sex. Plus a drunk Jimmy._

* * *

><p>At long last, Thomas was nearing the end of his shift. Despite being a popular waiter at the restaurant where he had been working for ten months and two days, he was eager to get off and have his time off.<p>

Normally, when he was not working, he would make an effort to see Philip Crowborough: sometimes, when Thomas stepped out the door at the end of a shift, Philip was waiting for him right there, to take him someplace. They'd go out to a movie, maybe two, have a late dinner at a pub, creep into a bed together. That was what Thomas looked forward to when he was working through the drudgery of being a top-notch waiter: Philip's playful smile, and the promise of a warm bed.

That was no longer reality, however, but Thomas nevertheless was glad to be free. It was hard at first, expecting Philip to be there when he knew very well that that scenario would never happen again. But it wasn't as if Thomas couldn't find amusement for himself. He went to movies by himself and didn't have to worry about Philip's opinion on them clouding his own impression. Sometimes he just went for walks by himself through the small town, through the park where stood a statue with a name that could easily be forgotten. At times, the thought of meeting other single guys to distract him from Philip crossed his mind, but Thomas decided that, for now at least, was not in his best interest. Maybe he'd do that after the New Year.

Tonight, however, was to be a different sort of events. At six o'clock, Jimmy was going to pick him up and chauffeur him to the party that Jimmy had mentioned before. It was nothing too big, Jimmy had said, just something his cousin put together every year. Still, once he got home, Thomas searched for his nicest shirt and jacket, spending a long time making himself look presentable while smirking in front of the mirror.

While he waited for Jimmy to arrive, Thomas fiddled around with his mobile idly. It was completely devoid of any pictures containing Philips face. Thomas had spend a good afternoon and a half cleaning each and every photo of him on his social media sites, his computer, tossing the ones he had printed out as well. Maybe it was a bit radical, but it was better than seeing a stray picture of Philip's smile and making Thomas wish that they were still together. At least, that was his theory on recovering as quickly as possible.

About fifteen minutes after six o'clock, Jimmy finally drove up in front of the flat. Thomas jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat, locked the door, and went outside towards the car.

He had to hide his sour face when he saw Ivy, Jimmy's mouse girlfriend, sitting beside Jimmy in the passenger seat. Her face was caked in blusher, her mouth smeared with holly-red lipstick, and heavy chandelier earrings hanging from her earlobes. It was one thing to get dressed up for a party, in Thomas's mind, and another to look like some hundred-year-old china doll.

"You're looking good tonight, mate," Jimmy said. Thomas nodded curtly. "Thanks. You too."

Ivy shifted in her seat. "Let's just get there soon, okay?"

"Hold your horses, Ives," Jimmy said, "Thomas is our only rider." He craned his head backwards towards Thomas. "My cousin found this great art gallery to host the party at this year. It's ten minutes away, you've probably seen it before."

Jimmy drove through town while the radio softly played overrated Christmas pop songs. Listening, without input, to the talk between Ivy and Jimmy, Thomas caught wind that Alfred Nugent and Daisy Robinson would also be there. As a couple, though? Another waiter at the restaurant where Thomas worked once dated Daisy Robinson. It was William Mason, according to Thomas's memory that didn't seem to take good care of remembering faces and couples.

The art gallery, as fate churned out the evening, was one that Thomas had been to before. With Philip, naturally. Back in April, the art gallery was showcasing a collection of photographs, supposedly dictating the intimacy and genuineness of male love. To Thomas, it was crude: the photos were certainly staged, highly stylized in their content. He didn't recall what Philip had said. Thankfully, that show had ended late in the spring: it would be a nightmare to see how some Christmas drunk reacted to a black-and-white photo of two men French kissing.

Inside, there was perhaps fifty people clustered inside a dimly lit square room, illuminated only by flashing colored lights that would induce photosensitive epilepsy in anyone. The pictures on the walls were, obviously, holiday-themed, with one symbol of Christmas or Chanukah occupying each frame: a red ornament in that one, a blue dreidel next to that one.

"Nice place, eh?" Jimmy said, throwing one arm around Thomas's shoulders. "Go find someone to chat up. I'll buy you a drink."

"Hey – Jimmy, I …"

Thomas was left standing alone as Jimmy shot off towards the bar. He looked around at the throng surrounding him, mingling and dancing. There were mostly opposite sex couples here; he did hate knowing he was the odd one out. That was the issue with parties, and it was so easy to make a total fool of oneself, especially when adding alcohol to the mix. Which Jimmy was about to add to his mix, incidentally.

He found himself standing rigidly, unmoving like a suit of armor on display. Jimmy was nowhere in sight, but he could see Ivy standing next to Daisy and Alfred. Alfred nodded to Thomas politely when he saw him (neither considered each other to be as cordial as friends, but they look at each other without a punch to the mouth), and Daisy (who had a one-time unrequited crush on Thomas) waved at him with the hand not holding the cosmopolitan. But wherever Jimmy was at the moment, he wasn't where he needed to be, which was handing Thomas a colourful mystery drink. How long was he going to be expected to wait for a drink? If the waiting period was going to be more than half an hour, he'd have to get the drink himself _and _search for Jimmy.

The music was too loud and too tasteless to tempt Thomas to dance, so he retreated to a more quiet corner of the gallery, far from the dancing and mindless gossip. He did not remember too much of the layout of the building from the last time he was here. He did remember there was an outdoor patio that overlooked a garden of overgrown ivy. The gallery was not at all large, and he found the glass double doors that led outside.

He was unflinchingly greeted by a blast if cold freezer air: it was in fact refreshing and a much better atmosphere than the humid party room. Thomas breathed in deeply, feeling some of his nerves blow away with the wind that whipped through his gel-smothered hair. He was glad there was a nice quiet sanctuary so he didn't have to spend the rest of the night in the outer circle of Dante's _Inferno._ There was only one person standing out here as well.

It just so happened to be Jimmy that was hunched over the railing, fingering the stem of a glass filled with something Thomas could not label.

"Jimmy," he called out, but not too loudly. Jimmy looked up: even though the strings of coloured lights did not shine very brightly, Thomas could not help but notice that the other man's face was a faint pink.

"Oh. Hey," Jimmy said dully. He turned to face Thomas and smiled weakly.

"Was the party too much for you?" Thomas said. He walked over to stand next to Jimmy.

Jimmy nodded. "Something like that."

"What's wrong? Do you feel sick?" Thomas asked with genuine concern. "I've got basic medical training, so if I can do anything for you, tell me."

"Hm. Thanks," was all that Jimmy said in reply.

"Jimmy Kent, if there's something wrong, just tell me. It won't do you good to keep quiet about it and sulk in your bed like I was doing."

Jimmy smiled a tad at that. His face hardened again into an expression that Thomas was actually quite familiar with.

"It's just ... I mean ... ugh, what's the point?" Jimmy groaned. His eyes looked very swollen, and along with his pink cheeks, Thomas deduced that he had been drinking nonstop since the party began. "I think I want to break up with Ivy."

"Oh," was all that Thomas could say as a first reaction. It was important not to slap Jimmy on the back and call him 'strong' for breaking up with a girl whom he was not compatible in the slightest with. "Maybe just take it easy on her. Remember how _I_ reacted? Do it tomorrow, at home, or when neither of you are intoxicated."

Jimmy nodded, his head moving up and down erratically like a bobble-head. This transitioned to him shaking his head savagely, stray strands of hair flying across his forehead. "That not just what puts me off," he said, slurring his words slightly.

"What else?" Thomas asked.

"I dunno if … if I wanna date other girls again after Ivy," Jimmy said.

Thomas fell silent.

Jimmy let out a gravelly breath. "It's not that I don't like Ivy, I do, and she's a good friend, but she's not very good in bed."

"You shouldn't decide you don't like girls because Ivy is crap at sex."

"No, I didn't mean that! S-sorry, I wasn't thinking about pickin' and choosin' my words," Jimmy explained. "She … well, I don't really feel all that good when I'm with her. And with other girls, it's like this little voice in my head telling me, 'Jimmy, you can do so much better. Why are you wasting your time?'" He stopped to take a drink from his glass and swished it around his mouth. "Sometimes I think of how on bloody earth you and Philip have – had, sorry – sex, and then my head says, 'don't you wanna be happy like those two?' But isn't that mental? Is that normal at all?"

"Alright then, Jimmy," Thomas said. "Answer me this: are you dating girls because, even if you aren't really attracted to them, society expects you to because you are a relatively normal-looking guy who dresses like most other guys?"

Jimmy frowned in confusion at Thomas. "Wha – could you repeat that all?"

"Are you gay?"

Jimmy, at last, did not feel the need to answer with a long string of slurred words. His head fell, and Thomas wondered if he had been too direct, or it was too soon. Jimmy did seem a little out of his head. They should best continue this conversation …

"Maybe I am," Jimmy said. "Or maybe I'm bisexual with a ten-percent affinity for most girls. Either way … oh, I dunno."

"Well, that doesn't really matter right now, does it?" Thomas said. "You should be thinking how you are going to get home. I don't think you can see too well now. What the hell did you drink?"

"Can't remember," Jimmy said. "Something with vodka?"

"Oh shit," Thomas laughed. "Don't you ever think ahead?"

"Naw," Jimmy said. He pointed at Thomas. "Can you take me home. D'you remember where I live?"

"Sure," Thomas said. "I think I do. But I don't know where Ivy lives."

"She'll probably insist that she stay with me," Jimmy said, waving his hand lazily. He stopped, looking very seriously at Thomas. "Wait. I never got you that drink for you. Shit, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I can last a night without alcohol. Besides, I don't need it now. I'm your designated driver."

"Right. Thanks, mate," Jimmy said. "I can count on you to get me out of a rut."

"You did the same for me last week," Thomas reminded him. "What kind of a man doesn't help his friend out?"

* * *

><p><strong>This little episode is actually how one of my friends came out to his future boyfriend. The only thing I added was the alcohol. Because drunk Jimmy :).<strong>


	9. O Christmas Tree

**Short drabble this time!**

* * *

><p><em>December 9: O Christmas Tree<em>

_Pairing: Mr Carson/Mrs Hughes_

_Rating: K_

* * *

><p>"Mr Carson?" Elsie Hughes asked. "Whatever are you still doing down here?"<p>

"Oh, Mrs Hughes." Mr Carson seemed somewhat surprised to see Mrs Hughes. After all, both of them were retiring to their rooms late. Mr Carson had been standing idly in front of the towering Christmas tree, which dwarfed him greatly, and the older worker was simply gazing at the naked tree. Boxes surrounding him and the tree resembled fallen stones from a once-magnificent fortress. Elsie smiled to herself: growing up in Argyll had given her a long-lasting imagination.

"What are all these boxes for? Are they really all the ornaments?" Mrs Hughes asked.

"They are, actually," Mr Carson said. "Miss Sybil and Mr Branson carried them all down from the attic."

Mrs Hughes emitted a sound of approval. "The two of them have been working very hard," she said. "Especially Mr Branson."

Mr Carson's upper lip twitched a bit: Mrs Hughes was well aware that Mr Carson did not hold a soft spot for the young and reckless Tom. Nevertheless, he tolerated him, and Mrs Hughes did understand that Tom was a decent character, most evident when he was with Sybil.

"When will we start trimming the tree this year?" Mrs Hughes asked.

"If all the lights test well, then tomorrow afternoon the family might begin decorating," Mr Carson said. "Although," he added with a nostalgic sigh, "I do enjoy seeing the tree as it naturally is, before it is weighed down with all of those heavy ornaments. I like seeing it just after the lights are put on, when there's that soft glow. I always thought it was a bit like an angel's halo."

Mrs Hughes beamed. It was a rare treat to see this rather gentle side to the stern-faced right-hand man to Robert Crawley. "I never took you as the poetic type."

"I'm not, Mrs Hughes," Mr Carson said to the contrary. "But I do enjoy the little things in life from time to time."

"It's good to know that you aren't always swept away in work," Mrs Hughes noted. "Sometimes it seems that the both of us are nothing but workers."

"That is true," Mr Carson agreed.

"But that's why I like Christmas," continued Mrs Hughes. "Briefly, our occupations and social standings are forgotten, and people seem happier."

"I see your point, Mrs Hughes, I really do," Mr Carson said. "The social order of the world will always remain, but sometimes it is relaxing to forget those walls are there."

Mrs Hughes looked at her watch. "It's quite late. The two of us should get to bed. The day won't start later tomorrow."

As if on cue, Mr Carson had to suppress a yawn. "Quite right, Mrs Hughes. The tree will still be here."

"Of course it will. Do you need anything before going up?" Mrs Hughes asked. She was conscious of Mr Carson's health concerns, which were numerous. There was the heart attack in the middle of dinner a few years ago, and then the wretched bout of flu ...

"No, no. I'm fine."

"Then shall I put some supper on a plate for you?"

"What? Excuse me, why would — ?"

"Because you were too busy running the house to actually sit down and eat it. But I saved you a plate. It's in the refrigerator. Would you like me to put it in the oven for you and heat it up?"

Mr Carson blinked in surprise. "That – that's very nice of you, Elsie. Thank you. But I'll go down and heat it up myself. You should get straight to bed."

"Just as long as you promise that you'll do the same as soon as you're finished eating," Mrs Hughes said in her usual, knowing tone of voice. "And should call me Elsie once in a while, like you just did. It's nice to hear my given name every now and then."

Mr Carson blinked once more, gazing at his colleague in slight confusion. "_Did _I call you 'Elsie?'"

"As a matter of fact, you did," Mrs Hughes said. "But it's alright. The tree will not fall on you and smite you because you called me anything but 'Mrs Hughes.'"

Mr Carson smiled and gave a short laugh. "I suppose you want me to slip up more often?"

"Well …" Mrs Hughes feigned serious mulling over the offer. "Frankly, I'm astonished that you remember my name."

"_Of course_ I remember your name," Mr Carson said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why, if I forgot your name, who am I to call myself your partner?"

Mrs Hughes could do nothing but smile at that.

"And just so _you_ remember, my first name Charles," Mr Carson said in addition.

"Charles or Charlie?" Mrs Hughes said teasingly.

Mr Carson found himself fairly flustered by this. "Erm … just Charles is fine," he decided.

"'Just Charles is fine,' then," Mrs Hughes said. She turned to go up the stairs to her bedroom, but then craned her head back in Mr Carson's direction.

"Now, you remember to eat that supper I took so much trouble to save for you. It was especially good tonight. You don't want to wake up in the middle of the night with your stomach making noises like bear."

Mr Carson laughed and waved Mrs Hughes down. "I promise I will eat. Now you go up. It's not right of me to keep you."

Mrs Hughes nodded. "Make sure you do. I'll be checking tomorrow whether you did so or not."

Mr Carson laughed again. "Nothing gets past you, does it, Mrs Hughes?"

"No, it most certainly does not," Mrs Hughes said.

She swallowed a yawn: the hectic activity of the day had left her awfully fatigued. "Good night, Mr Carson," she said to him.

"Good night, Elsie," he replied.

Steadily, she made her way up the stairs to her bedroom about three stories up. She had no way of knowing that as she slipped underneath the sheets, Charles was enjoying his warm food and thinking of Elsie Hughes at the same time.


	10. The Gifts of the Rebels

_December 10: _

_Pairing: Sybil/Tom_

_Rating: K+ for a reference to a pervert Larry Grey being a creep towards Sybil. #because I detest that guy so much #you have no idea #damn perv who got poor Tom intoxicated for no apparent reason whatsoever._

* * *

><p>Tom, like so many other people in the world, loved the Christmas season. He looked forward to snow on the ground, despite the chore of shoveling his car out following shortly after. Christmas reminded him of childhood in the suburbs of Dublin, inside his family's small home where, despite the troubles that life threw at, warmth and love was always found. Even now, when he was away from home and hadn't seen his family in a few months, he was still looking forward to simply the atmosphere of it all. Helping Sybil clean out her attic of old decorations was already the highlight of his December this year.<p>

However, the one problem that always snuck up on him and enjoyed watching his internal torment was this: what he was going get everyone for Christmas.

As a school-age boy, it had been simple. From seven in the morning to six in the evening, his mother, aunt, and older cousins slaved away in their kitchens, stirring batter and baking treats that the entire family would distribute to friends. That had been Tom's way of gift-giving in the past, but that was no longer an option. Unless someone came out straight and told him what they wanted, Tom was clueless.

What was going to make matters worse this year was the fact that, back in October, he had sworn to get Sybil something genuinely special. And with a limited budget and not even a vague idea, he felt absolutely absurd.

Sybil was very special to Tom, even if her parents didn't see that very well. He had known her long before last Christmas, but in the past year something had flourished, and Tom felt that he needed to show her that she meant so much to him by giving her something that, whenever she looked at it, she'd think of him.

And that was the part that was so goddamn difficult.

While he and Sybil tirelessly worked in the stone-cold attic of the Crawleys' manor house, he asked Sybil about her own Christmas past, hoping to get some idea of what she usually got as a present. He wanted his, when he decided what it was going to be, to be different than any other gift she had ever received. To his dismay, though, most of the gifts she had ever received, even to last year, sounded extravagant beyond measure and costing any middle-class man both arms and legs. If she were to get similar gifts this year, how was his going to stand out?

Just sorting through broken ornaments made Tom feel inadequate when it came to gift-giving. Even when he held a broken one in his hand, he could tell that any individual ornament sitting up in the attic was more expensive than any one gift he had ever given his family. He wasn't good at homemade gifts, couldn't cook anything fancy, and asking his mother to send him a tin of biscuits to give to Sybil just did not seem enough for him.

Right now, though, he was considering buying her a kukri knife to help her combat her fear of being killed by a demon in the form of a small Santa statue. He had laughed aloud when Sybil had described what had happened that fateful night years and years ago, although it wasn't very fair of him. As a child, he had been frightened of all the ghost stories his mother had told him to prevent him from wandering around the house late at night. And if _he_ had been the one to come face to face with a disturbing Santa statue after falling down a flight of stairs, he reckoned he'd also be somewhat traumatized. Though it was not very Sybil-like for her to seek protection behind someone else, even Tom. Sybil was a capable young woman who just happened to write for a feminist blog column behind her parents' backs, and to be frightened half to death by the dog scrambling around the attic was a side to her Tom had never before seen.

It must had been one terrifying Santa.

* * *

><p>Sybil was in the middle of scouring the internet for the gifts on the list she had compiled when a sudden thought struck her like lightning: what was she going to get Tom for Christmas?<p>

Getting gifts for her family was easy. She knew exactly what each person liked and did not like. She could get away with giving anyone almost anything, in fact. But Tom was entirely different: he required a whole different thought process. He was someone whom, in the past, Sybil had grown to regard as practically a boyfriend. And since she had never had a boyfriend, she was left wondering how on earth she was going to get him something good enough.

Well, that Larry Grey might have considered her to be his girlfriend at one point, but Sybil had smacked him across the face when he touched the inside of her thigh on the first 'date.' That little endeavor had ended quicker than Lady Jane Grey's rule over England.

As she pondered any possibly gift choices, Sybil tried to assess what Tom might want for Christmas. He never said outright what he wanted, besides who should be running for this and that position in the political world. Judging from what he had said about Christmas in Dublin, he wasn't accustomed to anything expensive being given to him, so Sybil decided that her gift to him could not be too expensive. She did not want him to think that she was flaunting her family's wealth (which even she hated to admit she possessed) or unintentionally make him uncomfortable. Sybil would never be able to forgive herself if the gift she gave to Tom did not make him kiss her on the lips in absolute joy.

But where would she start?

Her criteria for a present for Tom were fairly standard: it had to be special and unique; it could not be too expensive or outlandish; and above all else, it had to communicate to him just how much she loved him. In words it seemed simple enough, but did such a gift even exist at this point in space and time? If she had the opportunity to wander up and down Fifth Avenue like Mary was probably doing, she might be able to come up with a few ideas, but searching online stores didn't add fuel to her brainstorm.

She was going throttle herself until she came up with a plausible theory to the great question: what would her gift to Tom be?


	11. Have Yourself a Merry Little Romance

**I realize there has been some chronic delay in updating the _Anthology_. Exhaustion is getting to me (not solely from writing this, but many other things). So please bear with me, be patient, and keep on reading. I may update some of the entries from the past week, just give it some more meat, but I was prioritizing putting these up instead of making them pretty.**

* * *

><p><em>December 11: Have Yourself a Merry Little Romance<em>

_Pairing: _Thomas/Jimmy__

__Rating: T for strong language and some Thomas angst that may or may not make some people cry. Really sorry.__

* * *

><p>One minute, Jimmy was deep in REM sleep, and the next he was being rudely interrupted by "September" by Earth, Wind &amp; Fire. Quickly making a mental note to choose a softer ringtone, Jimmy blinked, searched blindly for his phone, then grasped it and hit the answer button.<p>

"Hmm, wha'?" he gargled. If Jimmy ever had sex, he would hope that his partner would not wake up before him and see his Sleeping Beauty impression. His mouth was coated in filmy spit and his misty eyes felt like those of an old woman's.

"Hey, Jimmy. It's Thomas. Are you awake?"

"Not fully," Jimmy said bitterly. "You do realize it is only …" He checked the alarm clock on the dresser across the room. "... seven-thirty in the fucking morning."

"Are you really not up yet? Are you one of those people who sleeps in until ten?"

Jimmy groaned loudly into the mouthpiece. "Thomas, did you call me just to berate me about my sleeping habits?"

"Sorry, no," Thomas said. His voice softened. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the night of the party. About … what you said."

"Yeah, I feel such an idiot," Jimmy said.

"How do you mean?" Thomas asked.

"Stop acting the fool, Barrow. I promised I'd get you a drink, and then I'm the one who goes and —"

"What?" Thomas exclaimed. "No, that's not what I meant. Forget about the drink, I mean what you said about Ivy and … then what you said about possibly being gay?" he added, sounding uncertain.

That all came back to Jimmy's mind. For the past few days, ever since the party, he had been reconstructing what he had said in front of Thomas, despite the fact that he had consumed drinks with more alcohol content than he had ever put in his mouth. And the dismal fact was, it was probably all true.

To tell the truth – not out loud, of course – Jimmy had never really been sure of his sexuality. In school, he had, along with his schoolmates, looked at pictures of blonde pop stars and actresses, because not doing that was considered 'mental.' (Later, 'gay' became a synonym for that.) Even if Jimmy found that 'sexy star' to be lacking in anything real or looking like a Photoshop creation, he didn't say it out loud.

When he came across an older student in college, a brown-haired youth with a chiseled jaw and a nameless visage, Jimmy had to pinch himself from thinking how hot he was. And it was not just a passing thought, or an imagined competition of good looks: in his head, it was like the initial signal of attraction.

Somehow, Jimmy had ignored any indication that he might not be completely heterosexual. He did think that two of his friends, Daisy and Ivy, were cute, and while he had decided to date Ivy, their relationship had not been as romantic as television and movies made it out to be. This peeved Jimmy: why were stylized romance dramas continuously churned out if the plotlines couldn't be experienced by everyone? Then again, most of those dramas concerned American boy-with-girl relationships, and since Jimmy was not American, that ideal romance was probably void.

"You know, if you need to talk, just come to me," Thomas continued, delivering Jimmy from his flashbacks. "I know what it's like to be confused."

"Who said I was confused?" Jimmy exclaimed.

"I did. Even if you aren't gay, you've still obviously got an issue with that Ivy – "

"Thomas," Jimmy interrupted. "I broke up with Ivy."

There was silence following this statement. Jimmy tapped the volume button in case he had accidently pressed the mute button with his cheek.

"Hello? Er, Thomas?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sorry. I was just – well, they all have it coming."

"Whaddya mean?" Jimmy frowned.

"Nothing, really," Thomas said, brushing off Jimmy's accusatory tone. "Listen, how about we meet up somewhere for breakfast? Because I don't feel that we're going to have a meaningful chat just over our phones."

"Okay, so now the British government is recording mobile phone conversations?" Jimmy said, laughing and throwing aside the sheets still covering his body.

"C'mon Jimmy, they've always been doing wiretaps and shit like that," Thomas said. "There's that tiny coffee shop near your place. I'm going to meet you there."

Jimmy jumped out of his bed. Holding the phone in place with his shoulder, he began to search for a shirt. "Yeah, that sounds alright. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Twenty minutes later, Jimmy pulled open the door to the Coffee Mug or some other generic café name. Thomas was waiting for him, already sitting at a small round table with a pot of tea and a croissant sandwich.

"I'm sorry. Did I keep you waiting?" Jimmy asked, settling into the chair directly in front of Thomas.

"No, not that much," Thomas shrugged. "I'm just glad you did not come in your pyjamas."

"Amusing, Thomas, you're really quite the comedian," Jimmy retorted. Thomas smirked.

"Heh. Go buy something to eat," he told Jimmy. He waited patiently as Jimmy ordered an egg sandwich and sat down again.

"So," Jimmy said shortly.

"So," Thomas parrotted.

Jimmy snorted. "Don't give me that, for God's sake. You're the one who called me out of bed at the ungodly hour that you did."

Thomas lifted his hands in apology. "You're right. Sorry. It's just … I wondered if you had anything troubling you that you needed to tell someone."

Jimmy sighed. Thomas was right: he was troubled. He would be spilling his guts right now if he was certain that was the right way to go about solving his problem.

"Well, I was wondering," Jimmy began, scratching the side of his head, "what it was like when you … you know … found out?"

Thomas smiled and laughed lightly. "When I came out as gay, you mean. Jimmy it's nothing forbidden."

"But people don't like it," Jimmy said.

Thomas scoffed curtly. "Jimmy, are you stuck in the fifteen-hundreds? It's becoming accepted." He peered closer at Jimmy. "Or are you afraid of what your friends think?"

Jimmy nodded dully. "Something like that. I mean, if Ivy catches wind that I'm attracted to guys in the slightest, she's going to come banging on my door asking why I ever even decided to go out with her."

"That would be typical of her," Thomas commented. "Speaking of, how did she react to you breaking up with her?"

Jimmy shrugged. "It was the usual: the denial, demand for explanation, bawling, saying I was going to regret this. I told her that we weren't compatible as boyfriend and girlfriend. Still, she acted like I didn't want to be friends anymore. But how did you find out that you were homosexual?"

Thomas sighed in his throat and leaned back in his chair. He took about thirty seconds to start giving his answer, but to Jimmy it felt like two hours. He was not very comfortable with silence.

"I'm not sure when I realized I was 'officially gay.' I mean, I had some idea that I was different, but I don't think I called myself 'officially gay' until I started feeling attraction towards this one guy at college."

"Did you know him well?" Jimmy asked curiously.

Thomas shrugged a bit. "Somewhat. We became friends slowly over time. He was studying to go into medicine, and we had some classes together. I think he wanted to become an ophthalmologist –"

"Oprah what?" Jimmy interjected.

"An eye surgeon, you peasant," Thomas said. "Actually, that didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"He joined the army," Thomas explained. "He went to Afghanistan. He didn't come back home the same."

"What happened?" asked Jimmy. Quickly, he noticed Thomas becoming misty-eyed.

"He was blinded by shrapnel. He was brought back to England to be hospitalized. And when I saw him on the ward — "

At this, Thomas's voice began to crack, but he kept on. "I wanted him to see me again, to let him know I was there for him. And that's when I think I began to realize I loved him. I just felt this attraction, something along the lines of me not wanting to leave his side. I was so damn worried about him."

Thomas cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. "He didn't make it. Some stray shrapnel had gotten into his brain. It moved, and he died in his sleep."

Jimmy's breath caught in throat. "My God. I-I can't imagine what that's like."

Thomas nodded as he grabbed his tea cup and took a big swallow of the scalding liquid. "I couldn't stop wishing he had lived for months. I quit thinking about medicine, because every time I thought about doctors, I thought about hospitals, and that's where he died. Somehow, I began to believe that, in some way, I could have saved him. But they knew he was going to die. They just brought him back to England to make him feel better, I think."

He breathed in heavily. "It was years ago, long before I met Philip. I still think about it sometimes, but I don't think he ever recognized that I was gay. Maybe he was straight. I never saw him in a relationship, and he never talked about wanting a girlfriend. Still — "

Jimmy looked at Thomas, visibly still shaken.

Purely on instinct, Jimmy reached over and grabbed Thomas's trembling hand. Thomas looked at Jimmy with red, wet eyes.

"Come on, mate," Jimmy said. "Let's go and do some Christmas shopping."

"What?" Thomas snapped.

"I said, 'let's go and do some Christmas shopping.' We're both single men looking for love, and I just so happen to have a long list of gifts I need to get for some people."

Thomas stared at Jimmy before a smile began to replace his shaking lips. "Let me see that list."

Jimmy opened up a note on his phone. Thomas took the phone, scanned the list quickly, then shook his head pitifully.

"The rest of the human race is so fucking stupid when it comes to gift-giving. I thought that was what Christmas was about."

"Then I suppose I'm lucky to have you as my shopping assistant," Jimmy said, taking back his phone and promptly deleting the entire list.

"Hey! I'm the professional one here," Thomas said. "Or are you planning to have me be the one hauling all of your bags to and fro?"

"Damn it, then, you've uncovered my great scheme," Jimmy said.

"Alright then," Thomas said. "I'll help you out, and I won't charge a penny."

"I'll still get you something. Maybe," Jimmy said.

"Wait, was I on that list?"

"No, but Santa Kent thinks you're a good guy, so why not?"

Thomas smiled slightly, the outer corner of his mouth turning upwards. "Let's go, mate. I want to see what monstrosity you get me so I can put it back on the shelf."

As he and Jimmy laughed, he pushed open the door, and was welcomed outside with a blast of frigid air.

"Shit! That's cold," Thomas cried out, teeth chattering like typewriter keys.

"You forgot your scarf, dummy," Jimmy said, holding the grey patterned fabric out for Thomas. Thomas took it and wrapped it around his neck.

"Where do we start, then?" Jimmy said.

The two of them set off down the road, as Thomas described what best to get for Jimmy's mother, with Jimmy hardly listening to a word Thomas said. He was, as cliché as it was, lost in Thomas's eyes and grateful just to be walking next to such a wonderful man.

Above, the silver clouds gathered in the sky. The first of thousands of snowflakes began to descend onto England, right down to Jimmy and Thomas.


	12. All I Want For Christmas is You

_December 12: All I Want For Christmas is You_

_Pairing: Mary/Matthew_

_Rating: K_

* * *

><p>"Matthew, I still do not understand," Isobel Crawley said. The office phone she was speaking into was probably faulty, as Matthew could not comprehend why his mother was unable to follow what he was saying.<p>

"Mother, apparently the forecast predicts that there's going to be snowfall in London early on the sixteenth, heavy enough to stop all flights in and out of London I got rebooked on a flight at one from Leeds Bradford to Heathrow tomorrow, and then from Heathrow to JFK. After a five hour layover."

Isobel was probably running that through in her head. Matthew hoped she wasn't exasperating herself while she was still working.

"Okay. I get it. Maybe. This isn't going to cost you anything dramatic, is it?"

"No, my boss is handling it with the airline company," Matthew explained.

"And Mary – did you call her and let her know?"

"I couldn't reach her, but oddly enough, I was able to contact Martha Levinson. She said that she'll make rearrangements or something."

"Good." Isobel sighed on the phone, obviously already suffering through a tiring morning. "For the love of everything good, I can't believe the weather pulls tricks like this. It was nice and light yesterday."

"Well, things like this happen," Matthew said. "Anyway, just called to let you know. I'll see you tonight."

With that, he ended the call. He rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his face with his palms. This entire month was exhausting him to the core: he imagined his cheekbones were going to be as noticeable as his nose by Christmas day. Even if his firm was sending him to New York for long enough to give him time to kill, it wasn't going to be a relaxing journey. He wanted stab whomever suggested him to go to New York right before Christmas in the arse.

The small consolation was that he had a friend on the other side of the pond: Mary, whose face he had not seen in months, but he imagined every day smiling and enjoying herself, a changed woman from the troubled and flummoxed person who had decided to leave England without a date for the return trip.

He missed Mary a lot: he remembered how torn he was when he said goodbye to her. Matthew knew well that it was better for Mary's spirit to take some time off and forget any troubles that she had accumulated in the past year. Matthew had admitted, indirectly, in one of his emails to her that he was jealous of her being carefree in another country. And yet, he missed her. A lot. More than he thought he would.

It was a surreal sense in his brain, to think that he'd see Mary again, and sooner than he had anticipated. He wondered how she would react upon seeing him again. Would she smile and embrace him, as old friends often did? Or would she stare off blankly, uncertain of what to do?

And just how much had she changed? He hadn't seen any pictures of her since she arrived in America, though she took plenty of the city surrounding her (she had sent him the pictures of the illuminated Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, which he had been delighted and shocked to receive from her). Matthew wondered if she had gotten some drastic haircut, which was fairly hard to envision in his mind. Since he had met her, she hadn't made any strikingly different alterations to her appearance, even though once she had commented on getting a pixie cut or bob or whatever strange names women christened their hair. He remembered the comment that Lavinia had given about the image of Mary's hair all chopped off, and he remembered smiling at that.

Out of a habit that had grown in his mind, since April, he paused when he thought of Lavinia. Constantly he told himself to brush aside his futile guilt because it wasn't going to do him any good, and it sure as hell was not going to do Lavinia any good. His pain had eased up during the last few months, but somehow, with Mary gone, his thinking of her also incited him to think of Lavinia. Matthew still did not know the reason for this. Maybe he was just bored, without a young woman to talk to.

Still, he was glad, as he was looking forward to share some time with Mary. For the both of them, the past few Christmases had been difficult, the years stress-filled on account of various unpleasantries. To see Mary finally relaxing might even help him to relax, and take his mind off of everything else. Mary had an unconscious talent of doing that very well.

Matthew heard his mobile phone vibrate on the desk, buzzing like a mortally wounded horsefly. He checked the messages, and saw an unidentifiable number. He was just about to delete the message, most likely spam or a caller with a wrong number, when he noticed the letters Mar inside the message.

Just as his instinct told him, though based on nothing but the letters within the text message, it was Mary.

_From: Mary Crawley's mobile. Hi Matthew, I know your flight got switched to tomorrow, Grandmama told me. Will wait for you tomorrow evening at JFK_

Matthew smiled to himself, restraining a burst of laughter. It seemed that Mary had finally figured out how to send text messages internationally. So far, she had only communicated with family and friends back home via email. Matthew felt rather flattered that she had graced him with a quick text message. It felt closer to normality to doing that instead of the rather rigid emails she sent him.

The phone vibrated again. Matthew looked at it again, and once again it was an unidentifiable number. But he knew it was Mary again.

_Can't wait to see you again_

"Oh, Mary Crawley," Matthew said wistfully, "have you really missed me that much?"

Because he did miss her, more than words could possibly say.

* * *

><p>Carefully, Mary typed out the words:<p>

_Can't wait to see you again._

She then hit send, and waited an obscene amount of time before it actually sent, far across the ocean and to Matthew Crawley's own mobile. She hoped he wouldn't that too weird a text, even though it was true.

It had been a shock when Grandmama had announced that, due to foreseen weather conditions, Matthew's flight into New York was a few days earlier. That meant, to Mary, she would see Matthew again sooner. This sudden turn of events was practically a good turn.

What news would Matthew bring, if he had any to bring? If her parents hadn't told her anything concerning the machinations of Richard Carlisle, that either meant that there wasn't anything to be told or they didn't want to disturb while she was on her holiday. That was meant very well, but if Mary had bad news waiting for her, she would rather know and adapt to the bad conditions than be caught off guard. And if there was any inkling of trouble regarding Carlisle and his manipulative behavior, Matthew would certainly be the one to tell her. Neither of them were accustomed to hiding secrets; not usually, as there was at least one that she had refrained from speaking aloud to him for several years. Otherwise, they were trusting confidantes, and thus Mary had to mentally prepare herself in case Matthew delivered the worst possible news.

_Get it together, Mary,_ she said to herself, _you sound positively paranoid. There's probably nothing to hear._

Often she told herself that Richard Carlisle was a coward who intimidated solely on false promises and threats. That may or may not be false, hopes that could be shattered within an instant, a few short words.

She heard a faint tinkling from the far side of the apartment, followed by strained grunting and something falling over and scraping a wall. She left her room to investigate the sound and found two men and her grandmother standing around a Christmas tree, struggling to right itself as it slid against the wall. The fragile tree stand had split down the middle, and Mary could see the workers' efforts were pointless.

"Gracious, I was hoping that tree stand would last another year. It would have been nice to decorate it tomorrow, to have it all ready for Matthew to see," Grandmama said. She looked down at the withered tree stand and shook her head, oblivious to the two men still in the living room that were struggling to keep the tree from crashing down on any other valuables.

"Grandmama, it's not a big deal whether or not there's a Christmas tree ready to welcome Matthew. He's not a god," Mary pointed out.

"He sure looks like one, or else that is an excellent editing job on those photos," Grandmama said. "Then again, I suppose that can be something you can do together."

"What?"

"Decorating the tree, you silly child," Grandmama said, playfully nudging her granddaughter. "He's going to be here for some extra time. And since I notice how bored you are with all my old wrinkled friends, I imagine you'll be with an old flame as much as you possibly can."

"Please do not call Matthew my 'old flame,' Grandmama," Mary responded.

Grandmama raised her hands in surrender. "Alright, easy, only teasing," she said. "Still, who knows when you'll see each other after this. It will be nice for the two of you to catch up, make some nice memories here in New York. And I promise I won't hang around you and embarrass you."

"Don't worry. I'm well capable of embarrassing myself, thank you very much," said Mary curtly.

"Uh, ma'am?" one of the workers said with a strong Boston accent. "This tree's 'bout to fall right on that vase there, and if someone doesn't move it — "

"_Ugh,_ for Pete's sake, just let it fall," Grandmama said, waving her hand nonchalantly.

"But ma'am — !"

The tree fell with a soft thud, and the vase that had been sitting in its path broke into eight large pieces.

"I hated that ugly piece. I don't know why I kept it in my home, let alone where everyone could see it," Grandmama said. She had been watching the workers run about the fallen tree like agitated chickens, and all that was missing was the popcorn.

Mary laughed. She watched as the two workers rolled the tree off of the table where the vase had once stood in all its gaudy pride and set against the wall.

"You know, Matthew broke a similar vase like that once," Mary said.

Grandmama gave a small _hmph_. "Justice is being served to these poor Quasimodo vases," she said.

"Well, it was by accident," Mary said, recalling the incident that had both horrified and amused her.

"As long as he doesn't break anything else, I will remain hospitable to Matthew," Grandmama declared.

"Matthew's hardly clumsy," Mary explained, "but he broke the vase in the middle of a fight."

"Ooh, well now I'll have to hear this story," Grandmama said.

Mary scowled. "Some other time," she said. "Maybe Matthew can tell you that story."

_When he gets here, of course. Which is sooner than expected. And I'll be seeing him very soon._

In fact, she was counting the hours until she'd see Matthew's smiling face again.


	13. What the Gladsome Tidings Be?

_December 13: What the Gladsome Tidings Be?_

_Paring: Anna/John_

_Rating: T (much of the latter half of the story concerns Anna's recovery from her rape)._

* * *

><p>If any person on earth were to walk into the Bates' flat today, they would not be able to catch a glimpse of the floor of the front room. Boxes of Christmas decorations that Anna's parents had given to her, ones that John's mother had kept in storage up to her passing, and the newest ones bought the week before did not leave much walking room, even for the two of them. Anna was reminded of the attics of Downton, how Christmas boxes took up a large percentage of that area, a veritable forest of dust-collecting ornaments, and she hoped that someone was cleaning out up there. Meanwhile, she was under the impression that John was trying to place each and every decoration somewhere in the house. The tree was starting to look rather crowded: the number of free branches was decreasing rapidly.<p>

"John, you need to be careful," Anna said to John. He was standing, precariously, on a stepstool. His arm was outstretched, nearly all the way to the top of the tree, and in his hand dangled a icicle shaped ornament.

"I'm perfectly alright, dear," John said, still straining to make his arm longer. "My leg is as sturdy as an oak tree."

Despite herself, Anna laughed. "This tree has dozens of free branches. You do not have to hang that icicle on the one that you can barely reach."

John laughed along with her. "You're right about that, but there are some large spots at the top of the tree where there aren't any other ornaments. I want to put all the icicle ornaments near the top."

Anna nodded. She stepped back, careful to avoid tripping backwards on any open boxes. She gazed up at the tree, looked it over, and smiled. The lights were off while John decorated, but when the sun went down they'd turn back on, and the tree would surely be dazzling. Like the Rockefeller Tree from the pictures that Mary had sent her.

Of course, if John continued to decorate like a caffeinated elf, all the ornaments might black out the lights.

"Anna, what should we put on top? Angel or star?"

"Hmm." Anna wandered around the perimeter of the tree, like an attorney deciding what to say next in a courtroom. "Angel or star?" she mused repeatedly. "Angel or star? Star or angel?"

"Anna!" John said, shaking his head. "Christmas is eleven days away, I want you to make up your mind before then."

"Alright, then. I think … the star."

"The star?" John asked. "Why not the angel?"

"Do you want the angel?" Anna asked, faking annoyance. "Didn't _you_ ask _me_ what should be the top piece?"

"Well, I thought you might think that the angel would be nice on top, seeing as _you're_ my angel."

"John, must you be so cheesy?"

Both of them laughed again as Anna searched for a star topper. These were the nice moments she lived for, just the simple brevity of laughter and corny affections of love. The year had been tough for everyone in their lives, but now was the time only to think about what cookies to bake and how best to decorate the tree.

The large gold star in hand, Anna was about to pass it to John, but she drew back quickly, with a pensive look on her face.

"What is it?" John said, quickly reverting from playful to serious.

"Oh, I was just …" Anna began. "I should be on the ladder to put this up."

She set the gold star down, then went towards the kitchen in search of the stepladder. John stepped carefully down from the stool and knelt down by another box, sifting through the bubble wrap in case he left behind another colored ball.

Nine minutes passed, even before John realized it. Oddly enough, Anna hadn't come back with the stepladder.

"Anna?" he called out to the flat. There wasn't an audible answer. He called out Anna's name again, and he tried to listen harder.

When he did not hear Anna, John stood and walked around the flat. It was small enough to not bother with the walking stick, though on rough days John used the walls to steady himself. Still, since he never needed to walk very far in this cosy home, he never tired just by walking from his bedroom to the kitchen. Moving into this flat with Anna was the best decision he ever made. Besides, as it went without saying, asking Anna to marry him.

"Anna?" he called out as he entered the kitchen. The stepladder was supposed to be in the broom cupboard. He opened the door to the cupboard. It was still inside.

John's body seemed to think that he had returned to war as his brain registered panic. Had Anna gone out, and had he not heard the door open? But why would she go outside?

"Are you alright, Anna?" John said loudly, hoping this time she'd hear. He went into their bedroom, where recently-washed articles of clothing still rested, completely in disarray.

He heard a sudden, soft noise coming from the loo. Immediately, he knew what was going on, and he was without a single doubt.

If John himself had had a difficult life, then Anna had lived much worse. Only a few months ago she had suffered a trauma that could not be forgotten, even with the passage of time and the strength of John's love. Even up to the past few weeks Anna had awoken in the middle of the night, shaking from a cold sweat, breathing heavily as if she had been running from a monster. John felt helpless when he saw his wife in such states. He had seen soldiers with various symptoms of PTSD, but when Anna suffered through her variant of the affliction, it was like seeing a completely different side to her. John knew her to be strong, to never let life get her down, but the healing process was a long, lonely one.

John waited outside the door to the loo, listening to Anna's steady but heavy breathing. He understood how Anna tried to console herself: by being alone and not bothering anyone with her problems. Frequently, John tried to convince her that she needed to tell others when she faltered in strength, but Anna remained stubborn. Today, he would not burst in. He would allow her to calm down, to wait for the horrid memories to pass.

Anna emerged after several minutes, stone-faced and pale. John said nothing as he took her hand in his. Anna gave a weak smile.

"I'm sorry," she said through her pained smile that was meant to reassure John (yet failing in its purpose). "I just – I felt I needed to be alone."

"Please, my dear, don't ever feel as if you need to be alone," John said. "I'm here for you. You can't get through this on your own."

Anna nodded, blinking quickly. "I know, I know." She sighed long and hard, shrugging her shoulders in a sign of defeat. "It just happened all of a sudden —"

"Shall we work on the tree tomorrow?" John suggested. "It's been a long day, and I feel responsible for keeping you on your feet."

"Honestly, it is not your fault," Anna said. "You've been so excited about decorating the tree, and since we haven't had a proper Christmas together —"

"You didn't want to spoil my fun, did you?" John finished. Anna nodded. John stepped forward and cradled her head in his arms.

"There's no shame in what happened to you. Remember, we're going to have a proper Christmas together. You said that yourself, right? Well then, let's look forward to all the fun we'll have," John comforted Anna.

Anna nodded, then sniffled a bit. "You're right, John. I shouldn't keep thinking about it. But it's just so hard sometimes."

"I understand that. But right now, let's think about something better," John said. "I could use your help in figuring out what to get you for Christmas."

"Wouldn't you rather surprise me?" Anna asked.

"Well, maybe," said John.

Anna smiled again, but this time it was warm once again. "I'll go put the kettle on, and I'm going to think about what hints I'm going to drop, then."

"You're only going to give me hints?"

"Yes," said Anna. "I want to see how good you are at guessing. Especially for me."

* * *

><p><strong>In this storyline, Anna is suffering from PTSD after being raped. Like many people, I was shocked (not because they featured something like sexual assault, but because it was Anna who was the victim, and also because of the brutality of the scene). For a while I wanted to write a fic based on that arc, so this small piece is my way of writing of how John tries to keep Anna strong while she slowly heals. I could expand and make this into a full fic – what do you think?<strong>


	14. Dreaming Through a Winter Wonderland

_December 14: Dreaming Through a Winter Wonderland_

_Pairing: Mary/Matthew_

_Rating: K_

* * *

><p>Mary awoke from a lovely dream.<p>

She had discovered herself on a bridge, one in Central Park. She had walked down it several times; only this time it was covered in snow, and she was alone. The entire park – perhaps even the entire city – was devoid of life. She had no coat on, and so she felt the chill of the swirling winter air around her. For a while, she simply stood, turning her head around in the hopes of catching a glimpse of colour, of some other life form. Her icy breath hung in the air in front of her like smoke.

Then, without a sound or sight to be perceived, something took hold of her hand. Mary froze, not certain if what was grasping her hand was friend or foe. Yet she held onto it, feeling the thing's flesh with her thumb. It felt like any other human hand: slightly bigger than her own, in fact, and it felt very familiar. Somehow she felt the warmth from the hand holding hers flow into her arm, filling her with the same heat that radiated from a fireplace.

She turned around, hoping to glance at the stranger holding on to her hand, and perhaps thank him for the warmness he was offering to her. She was met with eyes carved from ice, eyes that had startled her at first. But they looked down at her kindly, and she grasped the hand tighter.

_"Who's there?" _she asked to the winter wonderland.

_"It's just me,"_ answered a soft, deep voice. Mary's breath froze in her throat as she realized who it was that was speaking, and suddenly the hand holding hers slackened. She felt the wind slice through her like a knife.

_"Please, keep holding on to me," _she said in desperation. A moment of hesitation, then the hand gripped her again, and the warmth returned, making her impervious to the cold.

_"I'll keep holding on, I swear," _said the voice.

That was when she woke up, opening her own eyes to the white brilliance of morning. She moaned and pulled the covers closer to her. Her face felt dry and tired. Last night she and Grandmama (as well as Grandmama's entourage) had stood watch at the arrivals terminal at JFK airport, waiting for Matthew. Mary hardly blinked for fear of missing him among the crowds of people, all rushing to meet their loved ones.

When she caught sight of him, the weary traveler, dragging his suitcase behind him, it was like seeing someone from ages past. He looked almost the same as ever: same hair, same eyes, same boyish smile, which he flashed when he saw Mary. As Mary walked steadily towards him, careful not stumble from her sheer excitement, she saw his face become clearer, clearer than her own memory.

"Hello Mary," he had said, barely keeping his own delight contained. "It's good to see you again."

"It's good to see you as well," Mary said, as she embraced him as old friends did.

Mary sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. She smelled a mixture of coffee (primarily for her grandmother) and tea (primarily for her) wafting from the breakfast room, which was practically below her bedroom. Matthew's bedroom was only a few doors down from her own. Like a lethargic salamander, Mary slid out of her warm bed and into her slippers, padding cat-like to her private bathroom. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and groaned: the dark circles under her eyes were quite evident today, and she looked ghostly pale. This was usually her appearance when she woke up, and it wasn't satisfying to look like a witch first thing in the morning. The Disney princesses had given Mary impossible expectations in waking up.

_If Matthew just so happened to see me like this,_ Mary said to herself as she turned on the cold water tap, _I'd stuff his head in the chimney._

God, why did her mind go immediately to Matthew? It must be related the fact that he was, after so long, in her vicinity. And on top of that, he was living closer than he ever had to her. It was a weird sensation: back in England, he had his house in the village, and she had the manor house. To think that the two of them had slept metres away sent Mary disgusted laughter.

But why would she consider stuffing his head down the chimney anyway?

She splashed her face with ice-cold water, brushed her teeth and hair, then returned to her bedroom to find something to wear. A lot of what she had now had been acquired during her stay in New York. According to Grandmama, there was British fashion, and then there was New York couture, and if one had trained one's eye, one would tell the difference between the two. Mary believed that Grandmama was just using her to show off the current fashions for young women.

For today, she chose a certain pair of trousers, a dark-coloured jumper, and black heeled boots. Per usual, she admired herself in the floor-length mirror in the walk-in closet. This morning, she was struck with a different thought: what would Matthew think when he saw her? Matthew was hardly a judgemental person, but since coming to New York Mary believed she had changed a great deal. Would Matthew think the change acceptable? Perhaps he'd be so cloudy-eyed from the tiring plane journey yesterday that he would fail to notice any degree of alteration to Mary's person.

At least _she_ was satisfied with herself. Mary walked out of her bedroom and down the hall, trekked down the stairs to the lower level, and into the small dining room which right now was being serviced as a breakfast buffet. That was one aspect of living with her grandmother that resembled life back at Downton, although she did not have her papa and sisters sitting at the table with her. Nowadays, the only company she had was that of her Grandmama. And this morning, Matthew was included in the mix.

"Good morning Mary," he said to her. He sounded as if he said that every morning, and this day was nothing out of the ordinary.

"You sleep well?" Grandmama asked, winking at Mark. Mary realized that she had slept much later than usual. Just how tired was she actually?

She sat down across from Matthew, but couldn't meet his eyes. She still considered him her friend, but there was an awkwardness between the two of them. Despite such a long time of being apart, and despite all that Mary was doing, she could not find a way to start talking to him.

It was Grandmama that broke the silence; she hated unnecessary quiet, but Mary knew she was eager to see what was "up" between she and Matthew.

"So, what sort of adventures do the two of you have planned for today?" she asked, looking deliberately at Mary.

Matthew looked slyly at Mary. "I don't know. What _are_ we doing today?"

Mary raised her eyebrows to perfect arcs and slid her eyes from Grandmama to Matthew. She hated being singled out. But she had to think quickly, else hear some ridiculously embarrassing notion from Grandmama.

"Well …" she began, running her mouth before thinking of a plausible idea. "When I first arrived here, the first thing I did was walk around as much as I could, mostly up and down Fifth and Sixth Avenue, just to get acclimated to the city."

"Yeah, I remember you doing that," Grandmama said, remembering that day with not a lot of fondness. "Lovely day, chasing you about like a lost dog."

"Actually, you had the car following me," Mary pointed out.

"On the bright side, you gave yourself a lovely pair of stick-thin legs," Grandmama added.

Matthew pretended not to hear this last comment. Mary ignored it as well, though with a bonus eye roll. "And now that everything is set up for the holidays, it'll look quite pretty."

"Then I think you ought to save a bit of strength to walk about at night, when the lights can be seen," Grandmama said. She turned towards Matthew. "I'm telling you, it's like staring at ten-thousand computer screens while sitting in the dark, only much better. The side of Macy's – oh, God, it's a wonder that the world's energy hasn't yet extinguished."

Matthew nodded in agreement. "I'll be glad to have Mary as my guide."

"I hope you brought good walking shoes," Mary said.

"Of course I did," Matthew said, with a subtle twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. Mary purposefully pretended to let her napkin slip from her lap down to the floor, and she bent beneath the table so no one would see her blush, them smile.

Grandmama leaned back in her chair. "I suppose I'm the third wheel now."

"Come now, Grandmama, you can always follow in the car."

"No thank you. I'll take a sleigh ride instead."

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><p><strong>Sorry for the late updates once again. But all of your reviews are lovely!<strong>


	15. Good Will Toward Men

_December 15: Good Will Toward Men_

_Pairing: Robert/Cora_

_Rating: K_

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><p>The snow fell like heavy globs of ice cream all night. While the sky darkened completely, hiding all the stars and the moon, the ground transformed into a wintry landscape, becoming purer and whiter by the hour. The wind continued its cry, signaling that harsh weather had finally struck, and the miniscule snowflakes swirled in the air, creating patterns only to be dissolved in a matter of seconds.<p>

When Miss O'Brien drew the curtains back, both Cora and Robert blinked their eyes quickly, briefly blinded by the sun reflecting off the vast lay of snow. Even though the sun was out for now, more clouds were gathering to continue the onslaught of blizzard-like conditions.

"Mmmf," mumbled Robert. "O'Brien, how much snow is out there?"

"About twenty centimeters, sir," answered Miss O'Brien. "It's below freezing, and the weather report predicts there will be more."

"Good God," Robert groaned, throwing himself back onto the pillow.

"Oh Robert," Cora said, still lying beside him. "Must you always act like a little boy every time the forecast calls for snow? If you wanted to avoid winter, you can stay at my mother's beach house at the Turks and Caicos."

"I have Downton to maintain, thank you very much," Robert answered, still with his cheek pressed against the pillow. "If Sybil were to be left here without my charge, Downton would look like the Guggenheim."

"That's a rather unfair exaggeration," Cora noted.

"If you don't mind my telling you, Lady Grantham," Miss O'Brien said brazenly, "I have something to say about Lady Sybil."

"Go on," Cora said, skeptical but nonetheless readily listening. Robert turned his head slightly.

"Lady Sybil was up when the rest of us were, and with Mr Branson," O'Brien began. "I think that Lady Sybil was up much earlier than we were."

Robert was very still for three seconds before pushing himself off of the bed. "For the love of Christmas," he said, turning red as his parental rage caused him to do so. "If she pulls something like this — !"

"Hold on a minute, Robert," Cora said, gently reaching for her husband's arm. "O'Brien, what exactly were Sybil and Tom doing?"

"They were decorating the tree," answered O'Brien.

Cora turned to Robert with a know-it-all look. "See? They must have wanted it to be a surprise for us."

Robert sputtered, but Cora shushed him. "O'Brien, as far as Sybil and Tom are aware, we don't know anything. I want it to be a surprise when we go downstairs. And I'll be having breakfast with the family."

O'Brien pursed her lips, but said, "Very good, m'lady," and exited the room.

Robert shot his head towards Cora. "Are you really going to let this happen?"

"Stop being such a Grinch, Robert," Cora said, rubbing her eye with her knuckle. "Sybil and Tom have been working so very hard these past few weeks. They don't deserve to get into trouble simply because they were making something nice. Or is it because _you_ wanted to decorate the tree all by yourself?"

"That is not the reason or the point," Robert said. "Sybil let Tom Branson into our home at some ungodly hour of the morning —"

"To help with decorating the tree, and that is all," Cora said, sitting up. "Really Robert, I'm starting to think that I will revoke my Christmas gift to you. And it was quite lovely, too."

Robert scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The tree better look some degree of decorated when we get down there. I'll give them another half hour."

The tree was absolutely magnificent.

Both Robert and Cora descended the stairs with their mouths and eyes wide open. The entire tree, from the tip of the star topper to the base of the stand, was decked out in silver, gold, red and white colours, ornaments in an almost Victorian style hanging with the soft lights shining from in between the branches. False icicles, strands of silver tinsel and small boughs of holly were placed irregularly on the tree.

"I decided to go classical this year," Sybil said to her parents. "We had plenty of old ornaments left over, and I think it looks nicer when it's just simple ornaments and such."

"It's lovely," Cora said breathlessly. "How did you get the star on top?"

"Mr Carson found us a really tall ladder, and Tom put it up," Sybil explained.

Robert looked closely at the tree, then at Sybil. "How long have you been up doing this? It looks as if it took you a week for all of this."

"Well, remember we put the lights on the tree a few days ago?"

"No."

"That's because we never turned them on. We wanted to wait until the tree was trimmed before lighting it up. And I was up at half-past five putting the bottom ornaments on before Tom came a half-past six to put some on the taller branches."

"You were up at five-thirty doing all this?" Cora said. "It's a lovely job, and I'm proud of you for working so hard, but have a little bit of breakfast and then go back to bed. If you're going to continue as Santa's elf, you need to rest."

"Ugh, Mama please," Sybil said, hiding her own weariness.

"No 'mama please,'" Cora said decisively.

Sybil folded her arms. "Bye Tom," she said passively. "I'll see you later."

She went upstairs, dragging her feet.

"She did good work on the tree," Robert noted. "I never realized just how dedicated she was to this whole decorating business."

"Sybil was always a hard worker," Cora said. "And so are you, Tom. Thank you for helping out, the tree is magnificent. And I'm glad you have helped to clean out the attic."

"We're not quite finished up in the attic," Tom said. "There's still some matters to take care of."

Neither Cora nor Robert noticed Tom was giving a slight smirk at the word 'matters.'

"I suggest you go home and get some sleep as well, before Sybil makes you slave away again," Cora said.

"I'm quite happy to help Sybil out," Tom said. "Even if she makes me get up at six in the morning to surprise you."

"And it was a lovely surprise," Cora said. She nudged Robert to elicit a positive response from him.

"Yes. Lovely surprise," was all that he said.

In the breakfast room, Cora was fully prepared to chastise Robert.

"Are you really still acting like this with Tom?" she asked him, even before he had time to sit down. "He has been a good friend to Sybil, and he is a hardworking young man. The least you can do is accept _that _much."

"The problem is that I am afraid the two of them are more than 'good friends,'" Robert retorted, making quotation marks with his fingers.

"Would it really be that bad, Robert?" Cora said. Robert was silent.

"Who said you had to agree with his politics or his beliefs?" Cora continued. "He treats Sybil well, and they work well together, and frankly I do not see anything wrong."

"Are you turning American on me?" Robert asked.

"Well, why is it that when our girls find someone they like, you have to turn your nose up like some hoity-toity?" Cora said, staring sternly at Robert.

"First off, not always," Robert said. "But Edith just so happens to always attract men as old as me —"

"Michael Gregson is only ten years older than Edith," Cora said.

"— and I did approve of when Mary considered dating Matthew," Robert went on.

"Yes, that went rather well," Cora said sardonically. "Actually, you pushed the two of them together, so the one time you decided to put your nose in something, you ruined it."

"What do you suggest I do, then?" Robert said, spreading his arms wide. "Let my girls run wild with random men?"

"Be their father, but don't be an overseer," Cora said. "Even if they don't make the match that you want, their happiness is priority. Besides, it is Christmas, and remember: peace on earth, good will toward men. Which includes Tom and Michael."

Robert, at this point, knew much better than to argue with his wife, especially when she made a valid point. "Must you always try and educate me in this?" he said.

"Only when you are being a Grinch," Cora said.

"Stop calling me that," Robert said. "I am perfectly capable of enjoying Christmas."

"Yes, you are," Cora said. She leaned up and gave Robert a quick kiss. "Let's put this to rest, alright?"

Robert looked down at Isis, who was nudging his hand to get a scratch behind the ears.

"You aren't going to run off with some other dog, are you?" he asked her. "I can deal with my daughters going with other men, but if you left me, I'd be so heartbroken."

"Robert, what I said should include the dog," Cora said pointedly.


	16. Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?

**Since I'm home for the holidays, I've got a lot of time to post the chapters from the days that I missed. So, hopefully lots of updates. And I will be going back to edit the other chapters, so feel free to go back and reread some sections.**

**Also, I love _Frozen, _so I've snuck in some references (because no matter what the trolls say, that movie was beautiful. _Let it go, let it goooo..._ alright, I'll stop. I'm a wretched singer).**

* * *

><p><em>December 16: Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?<em>

_Pairing: Sybil/Tom_

_Rating: K+ for language on Tom's part, and a possible threat from a demonic Santa statue..._

* * *

><p>"Sybil, that is the weirdest snowman I have ever seen in my entire life," Tom said. "Who is that supposed to be?"<p>

Sybil looked at her snow creation, cringing. "I wanted it to look like a nineteenth century dandy," she said. "I found an old top hat and waistcoat in my house, so I thought, 'why shouldn't I put it on a snowman?'"

The snowman – for lack of a better term for the quasi-snow creature – was a heap of snow piled up to three feet high. The head was oddly shaped, with the mouth area jutting out farther than the nose was supposed to. Sybil had only drawn the eyes with her finger, and without any discernable lines, it was difficult to see where the eyes were. Of course, there was the worn top hat and the waistcoat (where several threads hung loose) to add insult to injury. It was quite a spectacle.

"The clothes are fine," Tom said. "But the face — that's what I find creepy."

"There's nothing wrong with its face!" Sybil, faking offence. She did realize the visage of the snowman was, to put it politely, imperfect, but she hated admitting she had little artistic talent. "I thought I could make it like Olaf from _Frozen_."

"You wanted to make a nineteenth-century looking Olaf?" Tom asked.

"Yes. But you're right: it doesn't look that good. I haven't built a snowman in a long time," Sybil admitted.

"Did Mary the snow queen refuse to come out of her room?" Tom teased.

Sybil giggled. "Something like that. I always thought Mary had a frozen heart."

Tom inspected the snowman. "I don't think Olaf really likes the fancy clothing," he said finally. "Maybe that's why he's making a weird face."

Tom flung the top hat off of the snowman's head and pulled off the waistcoat.

"Well, now he's naked," Sybil said.

"Wait just a minute," Tom said. He undid his own wool scarf and wrapped it around the snowman's head.

"There, now is babushka," Tom said in a Russian accent.

Sybil smiled. "How do you do that?"

"Do vhat?" Tom asked, still faking the accent.

"You make everything better, practically just by touching it," Sybil said. "The way you

decorated the tree like a god, and earlier going through the boxes like fire. And just now, you turned this Quasimodo snowman into Olaf."

"I'm no god, Sybil," Tom said. "I'm just an Irishman who likes to help out his girl whenever she asks for it."

Sybil blushed. _He called me his girl! _she squealed inside.

Tom looked towards the sky. "Do you think it's going to snow again?"

"Probably," Sybil said. "It hasn't really stopped snowing since yesterday morning. It's a good thing Matthew's flight got pushed forward; otherwise, he wouldn't have made it out."

Tom made a noise of agreement. "The problem is, now we're stranded here. It does no good it people can't drive their cars around and such."

Sybil sighed. "I bet you're going to be pretty busy at the garage, huh?" she said to Tom.

"Maybe," Tom said.

He took her hand. "But I'm not working now. Let's just enjoy the snow while we aren't sick of it."

"You're right. Pretty soon this snow will be old news," agreed Sybil. "So, do you wanna build another snowman?" she asked in a high pitched voice.

"Of course," said Tom. "We need to give Babushka Olaf someone to talk to."

"_Babushka Olaf?!"_

_Crunch._

Sybil looked around. "Tom, did you hear someone in the snow just now?"

Tom looked unsurely at Sybil through the corner of his eye. "Wasn't that just you?"

"No. I wasn't moving."

_Crunch._

"Stop moving, Tom!" Sybil ordered. Tom threw his arms up in exasperation.

"Sybil, you were acting just like this in the attic! Don't tell me you think that it's the demon Santa again."

"That was only Isis playing a prank on me," Sybil said. "But listen: I don't see any dog around, we're a five-hundred feet from the house, and that crunching sound —"

_Crunch._

" — is getting closer."

"Sybil, just relax. It's probably just some snow falling from a tree."

Sybil grabbed the neck of Tom's parka. "Tom, please don't tell me I'm mental. I _know _that devil Santa is out there, and I _know _it is coming."

Sybil leaned in close, looking straight into Tom's blue eyes. "It is coming for the both of us."

Tom really did feel uneasy as she gave him a crazy-eyed glare. Somehow, there was something oddly disturbing about the look in her eye, like in horror movies where the protagonist has a supernatural sense of discerning evil. But those were movies, and Sybil probably was taking her paranoia to the point of pure exaggeration.

"Sybil, it's not going to do any good if you keep cowering behind me," Tom said. "What happens to me if Santa runs _me_ through?"

Sybil released Tom's parka and stepped back, hesitating and thinking at once.

"You are absolutely right," she said. "God, why am I acting like such a scaredy cat? If I keep using you as a human shield, it's going to kill you first! How could I be so stupid and selfish? Putting you in danger like that, what was I thinking?"

_Fecking hell, _Tom thought. _I always thought Sybil wouldn't flinch if a tiger was charging her. How is it she's the damsel in distress when it comes to an old Santa statue?_

_Crunch. Crunch. _

"Sybil, listen closely to me," Tom whispered in her ear. "Do you think you can run back to the house? Do you think you can?"

Sybil looked up at Tom, confused. "Y-yes. Why?"

"Just wait until I tell you to do so, and then run. As fast as you can."

_Crunch_.

"Tom, do you see it somewhere?" Sybil whipped her head from side to side, searching the horizon frantically for a small red suit.

"Don't look for it," Tom instructed. "Run straight for the house, and don't look back. Whatever you do, don't try and find the demon."

Sybil nodded. "What should I do now? When do I start running?"

"When the thing has its back turned," Tom said, squinting far over Sybil's head. "I don't think it sees us yet, but when it isn't facing us, take your chance."

Sybil breathed heavily, slow and long, trying to stay calm. "God, where is it? How can you see it?"

"Not now, Sybil," Tom shushed her. "It's important that you – RUN!"

Sybil took off, bounding towards the house like a spooked deer, eyes focused only on the front door which grew in size before her. The snow cracked and fell apart underneath her feet. Her breath came in thick cloud before her, and quickly her throat began to stress from inhaling the frigid air. Still, she kept on running, not looking around her, even if the demon Santa Claus was right behind her, raising his little bell to dash her brains out. That thought made her run even more desperately, the adrenaline surging through her like a flooding river.

Meanwhile, Tom began to roll three small spheres from the snow, padding the snow down to make sure it did not collapse on him. It had been a long time since he himself had built a snowman, but he was able to accurately recall the instructions his older brother gave him upon his first building a snowman.

Once the body was done, Tom snapped some thin branches off a nearby tree, and stuck them in the snowman for arms and lay some on the top for hair. For the eyes, nose and mouth, he broke another twig into small bits and fashioned a cat-like smile, small beady eyes, and a long stiff nose.

He was almost done when his mobile began to ring. There was a text from Sybil.

_Tom, where are you?!_

Tom texted back: _I'm not dead, just so you know._

Sybil's next question came a few seconds later. _What are you doing?_

In reply, Tom snapped a picture with his new snowman and Babushka Olaf happily standing together. He was on his way back to the house when his mobile rang again.

_WHERE THE HELL IS THAT MONSTER?_

_Forced me to give Babushka Olaf a mate. Don't worry, I'm coming back to the house._ Tom shoved his phone back in his pocket, smiling at his handiwork.

_Crunch._

Tom stopped. It was the same noise that Sybil had pointed out earlier, the same noise she had attributed to the demon Santa —

_Crunch._

God, where could that be coming from? He didn't spot anything in the bright snow, where any degree of colour could be see, and he had perfect vision. It did sound rather close, but no one else was around him. Tom shook his head: now _he_ was being the paranoid one. It must have only been some plow moving snow about in some place he could not see.

_Crunch._

Tom began to walk, faster than he had been doing before. Bizarrely, his heart was beating harder. Why was he acting like this demon Santa was real? He had learned long ago that the monsters his mother had used to scare him into bed every night were not real (or died out long ago). So why the bloody hell was he starting to jump at every sound even though he had never even seen the fecking Santa that turned Sybil into an absolute chicken?

_Crunch._

Was that a flash of red Tom had caught a glimpse of, hiding in the snow?

Somewhere in the distance, there was the faint tinkle of a tiny instrument, like a bell.

Tom began running, stumbling through the snow. All the while he was shouting at himself.

_You are a fecking idiot, Tom Branson. You're a grown man, why are you running like a scared little boy? Honestly, even if I see that Santa statue, it would be up in the attic, not outside in the snow!_

He flung open the doors and shut them behind him, panting and letting the warm inside air fill his lungs.

"Oh my God, Tom! I was so worried about you!" Sybil cried as she threw herself at him. "I can't believe that evil demon forced you to work, in the freezing cold no less. Did it see you escape? Are you hurt —?"

"Sybil, look at me, I am absolutely fine. Not a scratch," Tom reassured her. "But I thought it would be better to wait until we had protective measures in place before trying to kill it."

"I'm glad you didn't attempt to kill it here and now," Sybil said. She had already taken off her wet coat and hat. "It can punch a hole in your head with the sharp edge of its little bell?"

"Are you serious?" Tom asked. He remembered the distant ringing of a bell that he heard outside.

"Of course I am," Sybil said. "Before I fell down the stairs, I heard it clanging the bell around my door. That's how you know it is preparing for murder."

Sybil began helping Tom to take off his parka. "Let's go downstairs and get some hot cocoa. We're safe inside."

"Allow me to say that you were very brave, Sybil. You took off like light, and you didn't stop for anything," Tom praised her. "Did you run a lot as a kid."

"No, not at all," Sybil said. "I tripped a lot whenever I ran, and I'd alway tear clothing and muss up my hair. I suppose when you're threatened, though, you immediately become an Olympic runner."

"Yeah, I guess," Tom said. "I'm glad you're safe, anyway."

"Me too," Sybil said. "I mean – I'm glad _you're _safe as well, not like I'm glad that _I'm _safe – obviously I'm happy that I'm alive, but just –"

"I understand Sybil," Tom said. He took her hand and together they walked down to steaming hot mugs of rich cocoa.


	17. Let It Snow (Love)

_December 17: Let It Snow (Love)_

_Pairing: Mary/Matthew_

_Rating: K_

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><p>Several days had gone by, and as the New York air grew grey and cold, every new bulletin seemed to announce the incoming snow. Even with the shitshows happening elsewhere in the world, it seemed that the city was bracing for winter weather like it was to be the storm of the century.<p>

"You see the photos of New York looking like the North Pole, but after five minutes it turns into a slushy grey mess, thanks to all our taxis," Martha was telling Matthew over breakfast. "Yet every year when it comes it turns out to be a big deal."

"My mother told me they've been having heavy snowfall around Downton," Matthew said.

"We almost always do," Mary shrugged, slapping blackberry spread on her toast. "Sometimes, though, it doesn't come until after New Years.'"

"Ironic, considering you live nearly as far away as the Russian tundra," Martha quipped.

Matthew cleared his throat. "I'm at least glad I got to walk around the city with Mary before the snow comes in. Unfortunately, I won't be able to join in on any plans the two of you have, as I'll have to go to the conference that I was sent here to attend this afternoon."

Mary's heart sank a bit. "I forgot that you were sent here on business."

Matthew smiled reassuringly at Mary. "It's alright. I'm glad that I got to come early to spend some time with you. And don't worry: I have free time tomorrow as well and then the day before I leave."

"Ah, so you won't be abandoning us completely," Mary said.

"She's bored to death with me," Martha said in a half whisper.

"I _can_ keep myself entertained, thank you very much," Mary insisted.

"Sure looks like it," Martha said.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Well, if Matthew's not with me, and if _you_," she said towards Grandmama, "don't need me for anything, I can finish up some Christmas shopping."

"Have you even started?" Grandmama said.

"Grandmama, if you are going to give me your input without my sanction, you can forget about me helping you to trim the tree."

"That's fine with me. I've heard Sybil did a bang-up job decorating Downton, I could easily airlift her over here," Grandmama said.

"I'll have to figure out a way to do my shopping for the both of you, without you looking over my shoulder," Matthew said. "Although I'm not very good at knowing what other people like."

"No one is, and those who do lose the ability at Christmas," Martha said. "But I have to object to you buying any gifts for me, you shouldn't be putting yourself through _that_ kind of trouble."

"I'll buy something for you anyway," Matthew said. "You've been so hospitable, allowing me to stay here on such short notice."

"Oh Matthew, I could let everybody with Crawley lineage stay here for the holidays," Martha said.

Mary set off early, alone, for the endless shops of the avenues. As she passed store windows displaying animatronic nutcrackers and dancing sugar-plum fairies, she wondered who to get what Christmas gifts. Shopping for her family and close friends was easy, and since she was aware of their eagerness to have items sold from opulent department stores. Of course, she had the cash, but lacked the insight on 'good gifts.' This was the problem of Christmas: it was supposed to be about peace on earth and good will toward men, but what it truly came down to was 'is this gift good enough?' Commercialism was a crucial part of the Christmas season, and New York certainly wasn't lacking in it.

While Mary browsed the shops, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with everybody else, she thought about what to get Anna. Considering the hardships she had faced in the past year, Anna was remarkably strong, and Mary wanted to give her something truly special, something beautiful. She had to be careful, though, about not buying anything too expensive, more for her own sake than Anna's. She was always attentive to the fact that she had more pocket money than most people, and had always given and received accordingly, but still she suffered a guilt complex due to the fact that Anna was a hardworking middle-class woman who was accustomed to having a lot of money to spend.

_Why is it not acceptable to simply ask what people want for Christmas? Does it always have to be a surprise? _Mary pondered. _After all, children tell Santa Claus exactly what they want, even if they ask for ridiculous toys or horses._

Casting her doubts aside, Mary did the best she could in buying clothing and books and whatnot for her family, arranging to have them sent to Downton by the twenty-fifth. For Sybil, she had found an elegant leather jacket fit for the family rebel; Edith was going to get a pale pink evening dress (which, to Mary, fit perfectly with Edith's current relationship status); Papa was going to receive a set of books that John Bates let slip that he might like, although judging from the synopsis they were snooze-worthy; for Mama, a set of silk scarves.

After a short break and a long mulling-over, Mary decided to try and find a necklace for Anna, something simple but elegant. Anna seldom dressed classy, but having something nice that she could wear everyday might help her to look in the mirror and smile a bit more. Mary had to contact Grandmama to find an appropriate jewelry store (anything but Cartier, Grandmama had specified), but in a smaller scale store she found a suitable chain of blue stones. Mary hoped she would be able to return to England soon so she could see Anna smiling as she wore it.

As the sky began to paint the streets with reflections of orange and pink, Mary felt satisfied with the gifts she was giving. She had finished finding Christmas presents for everyone on her list, which wasn't a terribly long list. Except for one.

There was no question of her giving a gift to Matthew; after all, the past few days had been spent together, and Mary was certain that there was not a single bad feeling between him and her. She was forced to admit, however, that she did know for anyone like Matthew, since she had never known anyone else like him.

She cared enough to want to give something that showed she put some thought into his gift, but nothing that required a whole different level of intimacy – neither of them needed anything like that. However, she was only versed in knowing what sort of things family and childhood friends liked. She was clueless as to what was an acceptable gift for a man who was more or less a good friend. She tried to remember what she had given him in years past, but those gifts were probably suggested by her mother. This season, she would think of something herself, something that she would have no qualms about presenting to Matthew before he departed back to England.

Unfortunately, even if she did have a clue, she would have no time to find it, as it was getting dark quickly, and she was feeling exhaustion hitting her finally. Dead on her feet, she hailed a taxi and, with relief, reentered her grandmother's apartment a few minutes later.

"Hello Mary," Matthew said, watching Mary trudge through the foyer. He cringed as he saw Mary practically limping toward him.

"You're walking like a zombie," he noted. Mary gave a joking sneer.

"When did you back?" she asked.

"Just a few minutes ago," Matthew answered. "And I'm glad you're back so I could ask you in person … if —"

"What?"

Matthew looked embarrassed, a side to him that Mary did not see often nowadays. "Well, I was wondering … I want to take _you_ out to dinner. Just you and me."

Mary stood rock still, hiding shaking fingers. "I … I see."

"If that's reasonable for you, I mean," Matthew added quickly. "If you're too tired —"

"I'm not!" Mary said instantly. "I promise, I can still walk."

A shade of relief came over Matthew. "Very well, then. Let's go in a few minutes. You should change into some more comfortable shoes."

The boots she was wearing had a slight heel, and after walking about in them for hours, Mary was more than perfectly content to rip them off her legs and slip on something that did not have a heel. She considered a change of clothes, and found a better out-for-dinner top and jacket. Not that Matthew cared how pretty she looked. When all was said and done, no one could tell Mary that she was going out on a date.

"I asked your grandmother for a good place to go," Matthew said. "There's one not too far away, but your grandmother was not sure if she had taken you there before."

"It's fine," Mary said, buttoning her coat.

"And I don't care how large the bill gets, I'm paying for it," Matthew decided.

Mary tried to relax in the taxi ride, with Matthew sitting beside her, hardly a foot away. She wondered what brought this on, why he was treating her to a night out. She shook the word _date_ out of her mind and resigned to the possibility that he was doing something nice for a friend.

She cleared her throat, hoping to start a conversation to alleviate the silence in the back seat of the taxi. "So, how was your day?" she began.

Matthew rubbed his forehead with the back of a finger. "Dull. I won't tell you the details of it; I'll only bore you to tears. If I realized how dreary these things could be, I would have insisted to my boss to keep me in England."

"Even if you weren't able to come to New York?" inquired Mary.

Matthew contemplated her words. "Well … I suppose just seeing you makes it worthwhile."

_Oh. My. God._ Mary's thinking capacity seemed to freeze over. Matthew seemed to sense how awkward he had just made matters, and promptly shut his mouth closed.

The restaurant was one that Mary had been to before, and it was one that she enjoyed very much. She didn't mention that, however, thinking that might spoil whatever mood Matthew was trying to keep. They were seated by a large window, where far below were horse carriages from Central Park, across every surface were coloured lights strung, and small people dotted on the street, hoping to find some way to reach home quickly.

"Have you gotten used to life in the city yet?" Matthew asked Mary.

Mary paused, searching for a viable answer. "To an extent," she conceded. "New York is far different from any other place. Everything happens at top speed, in excess. London is a quiet hamlet compared to this metropolis."

Matthew nodded, and Mary was pleased he agreed with her. "I always thought of New York as an entirely separate country, or like a place out of a sci-fi film," he said. "When you announced you were coming here to stay, I felt like you'd be moving to another planet. Only for a minute, obviously," he added.

"I'm not on another planet," Mary said, allowing only a hint of sadness to filter through her words, "but I am an ocean away from everyone I know."

"At least we aren't living in an era when you wouldn't hear back from your family for weeks if you sent them mail and such," Matthew said.

"I'm glad for that," Mary acknowledged. "Although I try not to distract myself by emailing family often. When I first came it, it was easier to forget that there's life elsewhere. I just don't like to think about it."

She had hit a rough nerve. Slowly and solemnly, Matthew nodded, but he remained silent, even though Mary could tell he had something to say to what she had just confessed. Something about Richard Carlisle, maybe. But she did not want to hear about it, and she'd be damned if Carlisle could ruin a pleasant evening while he was on another continent. She took a lengthy sip of wine to avoid continuing the subject. As she swallowed the alcohol, she detected a subtle movement through the corner of her eye, and she turned towards the window.

"Matthew, I think it's snowing," she said, motioning towards the window.

Matthew peered out to the cityscape, watching the small snowflakes fall steadily like feathers. "You're right. I guess the weathermen were right for once."

"It looks so nice," Mary said wistfully. She rested her head on her fist, feeling a sense of peace wash over her at last. She was consumed with fatigue from the day's endeavors (to say nothing of the condition of her feet), but she was glad she had taken Matthew's offer to spend a night along with him.

The two of them gazed at the falling snow as it came down heavier, bringing white onto the black streets. It reminded Mary of home, of the great white tundra that Downton was probably in the middle of already. The fresh snow caused a tinge of homesickness, only a small feeling, but with Matthew sitting with her, watching winter come at last to the city, she did not feel lacking in comforting vibes.

"I have missed you," Matthew told her after some silence. "Quite a lot, in fact."

"So have I," Mary said, not caring a single bit how he perceived that. She did not say a single word as Matthew's hand moved inexorably closer to her own, his fingertips just touching hers.


	18. Down in Yon Hospital

**I'm not well versed in writing Isobel and Dr. Clarkson pairing fics, so I just wrote the two of them as being good friends (while Dr. Clarkson as a _slight_ crush on Isobel). Apologies to any fans of this pairing who wanted sappy romance.**

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><p><em>December 18: Down in Yon Hospital<em>

_Pairing: Isobel/Dr. Clarkson_

_Rating: K+ for brief strong language_

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><p>Thanks to the heavy snows that had fallen in Yorkshire for the past few days, and the towering walls of white grains that blockaded the roads, the hospital at Downton became occupied by a few unlucky souls who had made the mistake of driving on the icy streets. Thus, the small establishment needed all the help it could get, and Dr. Clarkson found himself working many more hours than he would had liked so close to Christmas. It was a wholesome moment to pause in his work, and breathe calmly for a while, in between checking on the recently admitted patients. Most had broken bones and could be sent home in a matter of hours. One or two had head traumas and needed to rest for several days in hospital. A few were very young children, and Dr. Clarkson had assigned Isobel Crawley to look after some of the smaller ones, to comfort them as he diagnosed their injuries and decided whether or not to have them stay in hospital.<p>

Dr. Clarkson admired Isobel Crawley's stamina: most nurses and even most doctors could not work constantly for days without collapsing. But since the first stream of emergency patients came through the doors, she had been on her feet, dressed in scrubs, administering pain medication and the like, and she had only taken two breaks to eat. Dr. Clarkson often thought about telling – more like ordering – to go home and rest, but Isobel was made of a mixture of stubbornness and pride. She wouldn't stop until the car accidents ceased.

This afternoon, however, they hadn't had any incoming ambulances, and the most taxing part of the day had been calming one teenager down as she cried out to Isobel to "give her the fucking medicine to get rid of the fucking pain." Otherwise, the afternoon was fairly peaceful, and Dr. Clarkson was hopeful that people were getting smart and not driving their cars about. As a result, Isobel had retreated to the workers' room, and Dr. Clarkson was relieved to find her with her feet propped up on the coffee table.

"Tina told me to put my feet up," she explained to Dr. Clarkson. "I honestly do not need to, if there's something I need to do."

"Just as well, because there is nothing for you to do," Dr. Clarkson said. "We're in the midst of a quiet hour, thank God."

"Are we?" Isobel asked. She rubbed forehead with a dry, cracked hand.

"Would you like some tea?" Dr. Clarkson asked.

"Oh, thank you," Isobel said gratefully. "I don't believe I've eaten all day."

Dr. Clarkson shook his head. "You must remember to take care of yourself. It's not just the patients that need looking after."

Isobel let out a long sigh of exhaustion. "You're right, but somehow I feel that taking a break is selfish."

"It's not selfish if it keeps you from blacking out," Dr. Clarkson told her as he heated up the kettle on the camping stove. "Matthew's still in New York?"

"Yes," answered Isobel. "He's coming back on the twenty-first, I think."

"Hopefully you will be back home and enjoying the holiday with him by then," Dr. Clarkson noted.

A few minutes, he had prepared a cup of tea for Isobel as well as one for himself. He handed Isobel her mug, and she thanked him shortly. He stood still for a moment, wondering if he would be allowed to sit beside her on the couch.

"You should sit down as well, doctor," Isobel said. "You've been on your feet all day as well."

Dr. Clarkson smiled. "If you say so," he said, and sat down on the other end of the couch, an arm's length away from the nurse.

"Are you going to Lord Grantham's for Christmas dinner?" Dr. Clarkson asked. He knew that, ever since she had come to the village, the family at Downton had invited her to spend Christmas Eve with them.

"Yes, I am going," Isobel said. "I hope that I won't look like such a mess when I go there." She gingerly touched her hair, with was wild and tangled in places. "I'm must be frightful."

"Nonsense," Dr. Clarkson. "You've been managing perfectly."

He decided against mentioning the purple shadows under her eyes.

Isobel took a satisfying drink of tea from her mug. "I've just remembered something …"

"What is it?" Dr. Clarkson asked. He hoped that her fatigue was not taking a toll on her memory and she had forgotten to give medication to one of the patients.

"I haven't put the lights up in front," Isobel said, shaking her head as if it was some great misdemeanor. "I have the fake candles in the windows, but —"

"I can help you with that," Dr. Clarkson said, quickly and without thinking. Isobel looked at him queerly.

"I mean – tonight, after work, I can help you. It will go much faster with the two of us, I promise," Dr. Clarkson added, feeling his tongue turn to lead.

Isobel, to his surprise, smiled at him. "Thank you so much," she said to him. "That's rather kind of you."

"It is? Oh, well, it's no trouble at all," Dr. Clarkson said. "I just – I know you've been busy, and when I passed your house yesterday, it looked much too dark."

"That's because I didn't go home last night," Isobel said. "I slept here last night, on this couch, in case that poor girl screamed for painkillers again."

She and Dr. Clarkson chuckled. "I hope you don't think me too forward for offering to help you before you even asked," Dr. Clarkson said sheepishly.

"Not at all," Isobel said. "I'm glad you asked; that's very charitable of you."

Dr. Clarkson smiled and nodded his head. "It is Christmas, after all, and I suppose we should all be helping out our friends."

"Hear, hear," Isobel said. They clinked their tea mugs together and drank up.

A younger nurse opened the workers' room door abruptly. "Doctor, there's a small boy come in with frostnip."

Both Isobel and Dr. Clarkson simultaneously groaned. "Do children ever go outside in suitable clothing nowadays, or it is just t-shirt and jeans?" Isobel wondered aloud.

"This world is a strange one," Dr. Clarkson said enigmatically.

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><p><strong>The teenager screaming for fucking medication to get rid of the fucking pain? That was me two years ago. You never want to see me in hospital. Not a pretty sight (or sound). ;}<strong>


	19. The Christmas Ex Rock

_December 19: The Christmas Ex Rock_

_Pairing:Thomas/Jimmy_

_Rating__: T for strong language, and Jimmy doing some more drinking._

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><p>It probably had nothing to do with his epiphany, but Jimmy began to realize that, ever since he had begun to question his sexuality, he ended up sitting at a pub with a tall glass of beer in his hands. He wasn't the type to frequent pubs, especially alone, but since the day that he confessed to Thomas that he held romantic feelings for men ( and later broke up with Ivy), he had spent an hour or so every evening at the pub close to his house. It was, at least some form of, social life, and it was better than sitting at home and wondering who his next romantic partner would be and when he – or she, as Jimmy had not ruled out bisexuality – would appear to him like Gabriel coming to Mary.<p>

That was why tonight he was still sitting by himself, half-absorbed in the football game playing on the telly. He liked this pub, which is why he kept coming back night after night, but it wasn't a fantastically popular place. Young people did not flit in and out like bees to a field of fresh flowers here, and that was major one downside of living in this small town that caused Jimmy to often think about leaving. Meeting a new person was like meeting a celebrity. Even so, he would have been glad for some company, even with Thomas, but he was working at the restaurant, and Jimmy did not know who else to talk to, as Thomas was the only one aware of his sexuality crisis.

Somehow, Jimmy's eyes got attached to the television screen on some advertisement, and he didn't realize someone was tapping his shoulder until he was practically punched in the arm.

"Watch it, mate," Jimmy snapped, and whirled around.

"Hey, easy. Sorry about that, but you were quite enraptured by that IKEA commercial. I remember you from somewhere, though. Are you a friend of Thomas Barrow? I'm Philip Crowborough, we've probably met before."

Jimmy sat shock still. He knew this face; he recognized him from Thomas's old Facebook photos, and in fact had met him before, while Philip and Thomas were together.

"Uh … yeah, I know Thomas," stuttered Jimmy. He hoped that the alcohol hadn't fucked up his mind and would cause him to say something stupid. "I'm Jimmy Kent." For courtesy's sake, he held out a hand.

"Nice to see you here," Philip said, shaking Jimmy's outstretched hand.

Jimmy was unsure of what to say next. Fortunately, whatever drink Philip had had before (Jimmy could smell something on his breath) must have loosened his tongue.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Philip asked, not waiting for an answer from Jimmy before taking the stool right next to him. "I see you around now and then. I notice you've been coming here a lot recently."

"Yeah," Jimmy muttered. He did not appreciate having Thomas's ex sitting next to him, and he wished he could drink enough to drown out Philip's chit-chat, or be sick in order to have an excuse to stumble home.

"Any big fun Christmas plans?" Philip asked, leaning towards Jimmy.

"No," Jimmy said slowly, feeling suspicion creeping up behind him. Just like Philip's wandering fingers. He turned away a bit to avoid any physical contact.

"Hm," Philip murmured. "Me neither, nothing major like last year. I was in London with my folks, but I decided to take a break from all that posh and gold and shit. Why I'm staying here, as a matter of fact. Cutty Sark this time, please," he said to the barman. "And one for my friend."

"I don't need that, thanks," Jimmy said. To be well honest, he was not appreciative of how close Philip was getting. What was this fuckery? Why was Philip getting so close to him in the first place? Didn't he know of the concept of personal space. Evidently not.

"I think it's time you had something other than a plain beer," Philip pressed on.

"I said I don't need it," Jimmy repeated, this time with slight aggression in his tone. Philip raised an eyebrow.

"Suit yourself," he said, making light of his rejection. "My ex used to really like having me buy him drinks, though I suppose that was just so he didn't have to pay."

"Thomas, you mean," said Jimmy through gritted teeth. He was unable to pinpoint why he suddenly felt like punching Philip in the gut.

"Yeah, Thomas," Philip said, one corner of his mouth turning up in an ironic smile. "We were good mates. Had lots of great times. I liked Thomas a lot, even if he can be a manipulative bastard."

"Then why did you break up with him?" Jimmy interrogated. In his mind he churned the words _manipulative bastard_. In his opinion, that label was better fit for Philip Crowborough.

Philip waved it off. "What does it matter? It's over. It was for a long time. I just couldn't break it off easy with Thomas, that's all."

Jimmy clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles began to whiten and strain. "You really hurt him, you know."

"Sticks and stones. It happens to everyone. I'm just not that guy for him."

"Damn right."

Philip drained his glass of Cutty Sark. "I don't want to be the villain. But somebody has to do it."

Jimmy sat in quietude, observing Philip's careful movements. Even with alcohol in his system, Philip was composed, his posture unrivaled, even if nothing but shit was coming from his mouth. It was no surprise that Thomas had liked Philip, as Philip _was_ handsome, if only on the outside. But it was odd that he acted as if he hadn't gone out with Thomas for over a year. Dating someone for that long would certainly lead to a few personal conversations of varying preferences.

"Hey … can I ask you something?" Jimmy asked, uncertain if he was being an idiot.

"Sure, what?"

"What does Thomas like? As a gift? Like for Christmas."

Philip looked straight into Jimmy's eyes. "As a friend or a partner?" he inquired, giving the other man a teasing look.

"As a good friend," Jimmy concluded. "As someone who really care about him."

Philip chuckled. "Let's see …" He traced the rim of his empty glass with his index finger. "I remember something he said to me a few months ago, but I can't remember why. He said that his father was a watch designer or something, and he always liked clocks and such. Kind of macabre, if you think about it. Liking clocks, liking the passage of time."

"Okay," Jimmy said, halting Philip's diversion from the main topic. "Does he, like, have a watch?"

"Not a fancy one," Philip said. "Maybe I would have bought him a Cartier one, if I thought he was worth it."

"Huh." Jimmy thought, _Watches are nice. Thomas could use a fancy accessory like that. Pretty damn expensive, though._

"So, do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?" Philip asked, being quite direct.

Jimmy blinked, wide-eyed and more astonished than if someone had proposed to him in the middle of the street. He _knew_ what Philip was asking: he recognized this type of behavior, from men and women alike, and from his initial impression of the guy, he wasn't going to give him a single inch.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Jimmy said. He gulped down the rest of his beer.

"Oh," Philip said, surprised but unconvinced. "What are you doing?"

"Last minute Christmas shopping," Jimmy answered, slapping a note on the counter. He started to exit the pub.

"Hey, wait," Philip said sternly. Jimmy turned around, and asked, crudely, "What do you want?"

"Are you really going to be this way with Thomas?" Philip asked. "How long have you known him. He can be a senseless, megalomaniac bastard. He's been involved in some crazy shit, believe me."

"I don't, actually," Jimmy said. "I dunno what he was like with you, but he's a nice guy. Deep down. It took me a while to uncover that about him. He just needs someone who cares."

And with that, not bothering to say goodbye or acknowledge Philip, Jimmy walked

outside, the snow crunching beneath his heavy shoes.

"I don't give a shit about going broke," Jimmy said to himself. "Thomas is going to have a watch all wrapped up and waiting for him on Christmas day. He deserves it."

It was certainly good tidings that the relationship between Philip and Thomas had ended.


	20. All is Calm, All is Bright

_December 20: All is Calm, All is Bright_

_Pairing: Edith/Michael_

_Rating: T for precursor to sexy times *wink wink*_

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><p>Edith could not believe her luck, even as she sat on the train during the lengthy ride to London. However Michael had persuaded her father to allow her to come was unfathomable, but she couldn't be happier – except when she saw Michael Gregson as soon as she stepped onto the platform. Goodness, how long had it been since she had seen him?<p>

"Hello, darling," greeted Michael, planting a kiss on her cheek. "I'm so glad you're here."

"So am I," Edith said. Michael took her hand and walked with her off the platform. Edith held onto Michael's dry hand, and looked up at his face. He seemed tired, albeit pleased to see her. She wondered if Michael was carrying troubles that he had not told her about.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

"Me? I'm perfectly well. I've been anxious to see you, that's all," he said.

Edith, though unconvinced, smiled and patted his arm.

"You know, I haven't even started decorating," Michael said, sitting beside Edith in his car. The chauffeur lurched the car forward.

"Oh?"

"I have a tree ready, but I was hoping you'd help advise me on how to properly trim it," Michael said. "I've never been good at that sort of thing. Besides, I imagine you're expert at it, having that large tree up in your home."

"My sister did most of the decorating this year," Edith said. "But I'll be more than happy to help you with anything you need."

Michael chuckled. "You're not here to do all the work. I want you here so neither of us are lacking in attention at Christmas."

"I'll still help, anyway," said Edith. "I like being busy, even at Christmas. I feel like I'm making my mark when I work. And I'm simply glad to spend Christmas somewhere else for once. It always seems the same, year after year. I'm quite jealous that Mary is in New York, as she doesn't have to put up with the same old traditions at Downton."

"Sometimes those traditions are nice, though," Michael said. "Eating good food, being with family, racking your brains to find the perfect gift. It's sort of comforting, knowing that at this time of year you can return to good times."

"I'm ready for something new, even if it is just for one year," Edith said.

Michael's home was a little large for a man living without anyone else except a cook and a housekeeper, but with the two of them, it was perfectly cosy. Edith like the contrast to Downton or Grantham house, that it wasn't overly large, and every room could be used daily by two people. Edith had never stayed overnight, so she was not sure what to expect for bedding, but the guest bedroom and bathroom were well kept – and modernly furnished. The whole of Michael's home did not have a speck of the old-fashioned or tasteless. Evidently, a friend must have advised him on furniture choice. But, as Michael had warned her, there was hardly a string of lights or Christmas figurine to be seen, save for the naked tree in the window of the front room.

"God, I have my work cut out for me," Edith breathed, no sooner had she put up her coat in the closet. "Where do you keep your ornaments?"

"Slow down, Edith," Michael said. "Do you need something to eat? Would you like a drink?"

"I need something to work with," Edith said. "I swear I'm going to make your house beautiful by Christmas if it kills me."

"Then I'll help you get those ornaments from the basement, because I'm not going to let you work yourself to death," Michael said.

The sky over London had darkened, but the interior of Michael's home was now lit with soft yellow lights strung around the Christmas tree. Large spheres of every color hung from the branches, along with a newly-bought angel that Michael had rushed out to buy when he realized he did not have a tree topper.

Now the two of them sat, glasses of wine in hand, admiring the fruits of Edith's labor. She had not sat down at all during the four hours of running back and forth from the tree to the ornament boxes and back, but she did not care. There was evidence of Christmas cheer in Michael's home now, and she loved the simplicity of it. Elsewhere, there were homes (including her home) that covered every surface in garlands and the like, but the sophisticated tree here was lovely enough.

"I've never seen you so determined to make something beautiful," Michael said. "Do you work the same when writing?"

"Sometimes," Edith replied. "When I think in my head of something to write, I have to type fast so I don't lose the thought. I never notice if I do the same in other areas, though."

She took a sip of wine. "By the way, I've wanted to ask … how did you convince my father to stop being such a prison warden to me?"

Michael laughed, with a hint of discomfort at recalling the difficult conversation with Robert Crawley.

"First and foremost, your father is not trying to be a prison warden, even if that is what he seems. I myself would be apprehensive about allowing my daughter to sleep in the house of a boyfriend who is hardly romantic material —"

"Stop that, Michael," chided Edith. "You sound like some self-pitying codger. You have enough romantic material in you to please me."

Michael went on. "I didn't say anything especially heroic or profound to Robert. All I said was – I can't remember the exact words, but I told him along the line of I want you to be happy and safe, all the things that he wants for you. I did not push you to join me, and I would stand behind any decision you made. But in truth, I don't know why your father relented."

"I still don't believe he's satisfied," Edith said. "He have to live with me going against his will, though."

"Just remember, your father loves you," Michael said. Then, leaning towards Edith, he gave her a soft, drawn-out kiss. "And so do I."

Edith pretended to shy away. "Oh Michael, now you think you're a romance expert?"

Michael shrugged, but Edith took his glass, set it down on the floor, and gave him one more kiss, savoring the wine taste staining his mouth. She caressed his jawline, not noticing what she was doing at all until he leaned back against the arm of the sofa, bring Edith down with him.

"What is it?" Michael asked when Edith drew back and frowned.

"Should we —?" she stammered.

"Why are you asking me?" questioned Michael.

"I just — " began Edith, but she fell silent when she realized she actually had nothing to say. She was tongue-tied for once.

With nothing else to do with her mouth, she brought it down to Michael's again, stroking some part of his body, pressing down against his warm skin. She felt him bring his arm and encircle her shoulders, keeping her pinned against him.

She did not have a single misgiving, not even one hidden deep in the recesses of her mind.


	21. The Many Emotions of Mary

**To my wonderful readers:**

**I understand there's quite some explaining I have to do pertaining to the delay in updating the Advent. I have a few reasons for this: I realized early on that this was a fairly big project to tackle, and with many real-world problems I had to deal with, time for writing and updating was scarce. I promised that I'd finish most of it at the end of December, after Christmas. However, as soon as Christmas was over, I began to show signs of exhaustion mixed with illness. I wasn't in any state to work on writing, although I won't describe the wretched details. It was incredibly upsetting for me to put off writing, but recently I've improved, and as you can see, I'm back to work.**

** I know a lot of people were concerned that I wasn't updating, but I'm not abandoning this ****fic: it's been well received so far, and I hope it continues to the very end. That being said, forthcoming updates had no set date, and it may be a few days until the next one. But I would be delighted for readers to resume reading, despite the holidays being long over.**

**To those who are sticking with this fic to the very end, thank you to all of your support. Reviews are very much appreciated.**

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><p><em>December 21: The Many Emotions of Mary<em>

_Paring: Mary/Matthew_

_Rating: T for lots of angst and brief strong language._

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><p>The snows came down heavy overnight, replacing the former grey snow with heavy piles of white ice that would definitely not melt for days. To Mary, it resembled Downton most winters, save for the skyscrapers and yellow taxicabs that stood out behind a film of misty white. Few were the hours that the snow did not fall, and after these brief periods it often came down harder than before. As a result, a warning had been issued to stay off of the streets when visibility was low (which was frequently the case) and most flights departing from New York were either delayed or altogether canceled. This included the flight that Matthew had planned to take to go home, but there did not seem much hope, even as he made calls to the airport about taking one in the morning tomorrow.<p>

"Any luck?" Mary asked, her brow furrowed with sincere worry. If Matthew were not to get home before Christmas … obviously he would be stuck with her for the holiday. He had been staying at Grandmama's for about a week, and though Mary had relished in the time they had spent with each other, she knew how anxious he was to get back home.

"No, not yet," Matthew replied, sounding much like a downtrodden soldier. "The planes aren't leaving New York because of the snow."

"Good God," Mary marveled aloud. "Is is truly that bad?"

"There's a probability that the snow will just keep coming," explained Matthew. He sat down, appearing in the midst of defeat. "Somehow, I had a feeling about this happening, but then … I did not believe that it would come to pass."

"When do they think it will be safe for the planes to leave?" asked Mary.

Matthew's face grew long again. "It's estimated that the weather won't permit safe air travel until the day after Christmas."

Mary stifled a gasp. "That's awful! Your mother is going to be so disappointed. And everybody else, as well."

"I forgot to add that there's probably some issue with the snow in England as well," Matthew went further. "London might not be a problem, but the airport near Downton is also closed down. Your mother told me that the runway at Leeds Bradford has a coating of ice a few millimetres thick."

"And that's enough to keep you from going home?"

Matthew nodded his head. "Even if I were to leave New York, I'd be stuck in London," he explained.

Mary felt helpless, even though she herself could do nothing, no matter how much wished.

"It's bizarre, isn't it?" Mary said, sitting down next to him, more to ease herself than to comfort him.

"What's bizarre?" he repeated, turning his head toward her.

"You had to come early to avoid the snow in England, and now you're stuck here for the same reason," explained Mary. "You must have upset some winter god or someone."

For once on that dismal day, Matthew cracked a small smile. "Fate likes playing around with our plans," he said enigmatically.

"Nothing is ever as easy as it seems," Mary said. "Oh God, I sound like Granny."

"You do, actually," Matthew said. "Didn't she say that to you when you announced you were leaving Downton?"

Mary nodded, remembering Granny's words like the back her hand. "She did. She wasn't enthusiastic about me leaving, especially after what – what Richard Carlisle threatened to do. She said I wasn't much better than a rabbit hiding in the bushes while the dog sniffs for it, whatever that means."

Matthew looked perplexed at that metaphor. "I don't think that was very fair of old Violet. You did what you had to do."

Mary turned to Matthew, with every inch of her being surrounded by seriousness, yet trying to maintain a calm, nonchalant expression. "I have to ask — has Carlisle released anything yet, about me? Have you heard anything at all?"

Matthew seemingly, like Mary, had dreaded and anticipated this discussion, and his palms seemed cold as he held onto Mary's hand. Mary waited, through languorous silence, with bated breath.

"I'll cut to the chase — Carlisle hasn't published a single paper containing your name," Matthew started. "He hasn't even harassed your family, or blackmailed anymore. The last we heard of him was just after you left."

Despite Matthew's report, Mary still apprehensive. Yet she was relieved that England was not reeling in the revelation of her atrocious, mortifying secret. Even better still, her family was not being tormented by the bastard, whose very nature entitled him to bully anyone who had anything worthy to gossip about, which included the Crawleys.

"What did he say to you last?" Mary asked.

"He told your father that, if Robert tried to bribe him or take measure to keep him quiet, he'd publish the exposé without batting an eyelid," Matthew revealed. "Your father hasn't done anything like that …"

Mary could hear Matthew's voice falter, as if his words dropped off a cliff. "But?" she prompted.

Matthew, in spite of his misgivings, went on. It seemed he was afraid that Carlisle himself would come crashing through the door at any second.

"I went to Carlisle's offices in London, about two weeks after you left," he continued. "I promised that I would not leave until I gave him a piece of my mind. So, when I finally saw him, I demanded that he never even consider putting your name in any of his papers, ever."

Mary's eyebrows shot up. "Matthew, that was a rather risky move."

"I'm quite aware of that, thank you," Matthew said. "But I still did it. I don't know what would come out of it."

"What did Carlisle think?"

"I'm not completely sure. He just looked at me while I was talking – more like shouting, actually – to him. Do you remember that glare he had whenever he intimidated you? That was what I saw when I looked at his face.

"And then, he asked me, 'Just how much do you love Mary?'" Matthew said, his speech halting.

Mary's jaw dropped, and she looked at Matthew, unblinking, as unmoving as stone angel. _Just how much do you love Mary?_ Had Carlisle really asked that to Matthew?

Matthew sensed the sudden aura of tension around Mary, and he eased into a guilty complexion. "I'm sorry, Mary. Should I not have said that —?"

"No, it's my fault," Mary interrupted. "I asked you, not the other way around."

She folded her hands in her lap. "So, what did you say to him?"

Matthew inhaled sharply, like someone about to perform a speech. "I told him …" He gulped, and hesitated.

"Go on," urged Mary. "I won't judge you, no matter what you said."

A beat of silence. Then —

"I told him that I care about you very much."

Mary felt her heart pound in her chest like a gong. _God, why did he say that? Does he mean it at all?_

"He made me leave afterwards, and since then he's been as quiet as the grave," Matthew went on. "I don't know whether or not he's going to keep his silence, but he's done so far, and perhaps it is safe to hope that he won't bother us anymore."

"That's – that's such a relief," sighed Mary. "I can't believe you did that for me."

"Why wouldn't I?" Matthew said. "I couldn't stand by and let that bastard make threats, or lie about your character. I wouldn't forgive myself for not doing so."

"Oh, Matthew, why would you say that? It's not your fault at all."

"Nonetheless, I did so."

Mary was about to argue, stating that Carlisle could have had Matthew arrested or something equally horrible, but she couldn't find the heart to tell him off.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, not daring to look Matthew in the eye.

"Mean what?"

"What you said to Carlisle, about you caring about me very much," Mary spelled out. "Please tell me if even a single syllable of that it true."

Matthew was, in the least, confounded, but he answered her plea. "It's all true. I meant every single word of what I said, Mary. Don't doubt me on that."

"I don't, now," Mary said.

She felt a wave of an unidentifiable passion radiate from her heart, chilling and warming her concurrently, even as her thoughts spiraled about in perplexion. She felt her breath hitch in her throat, as if she were about to cry. Her eyes began to hurt as they welled with tears that she contained by rubbing them fiercely. Under most circumstances, she was quite good at concealing her emotions; all she had to do was to tell herself that what someone was saying or doing did not matter in the end, and she'd repeat inside her head like a mantra. She did not want to cry in front of Matthew, so she struggled to allow that mantra to echo as she too often commanded it to do.

But it was not easy this time around. It was like the words, in fact, the very thought, was resisting her. This time, it was like she was convincing herself of a lie, with the truth bleeding through and revealing the falseness of what she wanted to believe. No matter how hard she fought against the truth, against the wetness in her eyes, against the ache in her heart, nothing would relent.

_God, what's happening to me?_ Mary feebly wondered. _Why do I feel like this? What am I even feeling? Is this – is this what love feels like? I don't understand – why does it hurt so fucking much?_

Matthew reached an arm across her back and gripped her opposite arm as Mary obscured her face with her hands. She had been shaking, but only now had she realized it, with Matthew stabilizing her. Were she acting as herself, she would have drawn away and stood up, putting the distance between them again, but she couldn't will herself to do that. She _wanted_ his hand lightly touching her arm, anchoring her to him.

"Mary, I'm always going to be on your side. You should know that – why're you crying?"

"Shut up!" Mary growled, her shout muffled through her hands. "I'm not crying!"

"Mary, New York has made you a terrible liar," Matthew figured. "It's alright. There's no one around."

He pulled her closer to him, letting Mary's cheek rest against his shoulder. Steadily, while Matthew held her, Mary began to cry.


	22. Here Comes Santa Claus

_**A/N: I had so much fun writing this chapter, just because Sybil goes batshit crazy because *spoiler*. I love writing Downton characters doing stuff that they wouldn't ever do in the show. That's why I like AUs. But Sybil – she's absolutely nuts in this fiction, going on about a demon Santa. But ... perhaps she isn't all that crazy.**_

_**BTWs, I now have a Tumblr. Just search for my fan fiction name. I've created some photosets for Advent. ;)**_

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><p><em>December 22: Here Comes Santa Claus<em>

_Pairing: Sybil/Tom_

_Rating: T for strong language (from Sybil) and some intensity._

* * *

><p>"Sybil, how late did you stay up wrapping gifts?" Cora asked, seeing Sybil's tonsils as the young girl yawned.<p>

"Erm … just until twelve," Sybil answered. Her mother raised a sharp eyebrow. Sybil grimaced.

"Alright – one in the morning," she confessed.

"Heavens, couldn't you have saved some to do later?" Cora said. "There's no reason to do it all at once."

"Don't worry, I still have some left to do," Sybil said. Cora shook her head mock-disapprovingly.

Hidden in Sybil's closet was a bountiful array of boxes wrapped in red and gold paper, on which Sybil had worked late into the night. She made considerable effort to avoid any evident gaffes and causing any package to look home-wrapped, as opposed to the professional gift wrappers at department stores. This year, she had chosen not to pay money to make her presents look presentable, though, to be honest, wrapping gifts neatly was harder than it looked. The rectangular boxes she had managed to conceal by the end of the night were ready to be put underneath the tree, but the irregularly shaped ones had given her more trouble than it was worth, and most likely would need to be rewrapped when she had spare time.

Only one present she planned to give couldn't be found in her bedroom. Frankly, anyone could see it, but no one – save she and one other person – would know it was a gift to a special someone.

Christmas was so close now; Sybil could close her eyes and smell the delicious treats being baked downstairs, smothered in mint and spice. The great tree was fully lit and decorated, and even now cast a soft golden glow that warmed anyone who gazed upon it. Every bannister and wall had been draped with garlands of green, red, and silver, and Sybil likened the appearance of Downton to the mansion in the _Nutcracker_. Nearly every decoration that she and Tom had approved was displayed, and no one could look in any direction without viewing something that spread the Christmas spirit. She could hardly wait for the Christmas party tonight, so people could admire the décor and she'd get some praise for something at last.

Her only wish was that Tom would show up for the party, for she was planning to show him his gift then.

Tom was never a party person — especially at ones held by people with money to toss about. But that being said, neither was Sybil, since there were hardly any girls her age, and those that did attend were never interested in what Sybil liked. She often wished she was little again, when she wasn't forced to stay downstairs and 'socialize' with dullards. She imagined the parties held by students in the city, with colourful lights and electronic music and exciting, original people. If she ever had the chance to steal away to one of _those_ shindigs, she was sure she'd have the time of her life.

For now, unfortunately, she was slated to appear at tonight's party in a constricting evening dress and a fabricated smile. If Tom wasn't going to turn up, then she wouldn't even bother plastering a fake smile on her face. Hell, she might feign illness and not even show up. Her parents and the guests would hardly miss her; she could afford to avoid respectable people for one night.

Tom had expressed nothing but apprehension when Sybil had approached him about the party, but it was imperative that she get a final answer. To settle this once and for all, she pulled out her mobile, sat down on the staircase, and dialed Tom's mobile number. She waited until the robot woman prompted her to leave a voice message before hanging up, then trying again. She had to do it twice over before she got through to him; she was not going to put it off.

"Sybil? Can you hear me?" Tom's voice sounded scratchy, like he was trying to talk over a broken television. There must be some interference coming from somewhere.

"Tom? What are you doing?" Sybil said, raising her voice a tone.

"I'm – never mind that now, what do you need?" he asked.

"I just need to know if you're coming tonight, for the party," Sybil informed him.

"Ah, Sybil … I can't make it tonight," Tom confessed, sounding far away.

Sybil whinged. "But Tom … I know you aren't comfortable at these sort of parties, but all you have to do if put on your good jacket and stick next to me —"

"It's not that, I'd come if I could," Tom explained. "I'm on the train to Manchester."

The phone nearly slid from Sybil's fingers. "What did you say?"

"I'm going to Manchester," Tom said clearly.

"I heard that! But - but why?" Sybil stammered. "You didn't tell me you were going. Why are you –?"

"It's a lot to explain, Sybil, and the connection is bad. But I promise I'll be back tomorrow."

"It's just that I was convinced you'd be there with me for the party," Sybil said. "You said you'd try and make it. What's so important that you have to be in Manchester for?"

"It's just family business," Tom said quickly.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, absolutely."

Sybil grumbled, throwing a little spittle onto her mobile. "Thanks to you, I'm going to be a lifeless stocking tonight. And there was going to be a surprise for you, too."

"Huh? What do you mean, a surprise?"

"Well, you won't be able to find out until you come back," Sybil said.

"The suspense may kill me first," Tom answered.

Sybil tutted aloud, and she heard Tom chuckle on the other end.

"Sybil? Do you forgive me?"

"Just this once. And you better tell me why you've left all of a sudden, like some thief in the night. You haven't stolen anything, have you?"

"Ha, don't worry. I told you before, I'm coming back tomorrow."

"Promise you won't get stranded like Matthew?"

"I promise. I'll walk back to you if I have to."

After the usual exchange of affections, Sybil ended the call. There was still much to do before the party, and with Edith now absent, it was up to her to do it all.

* * *

><p>The party went, for the most part, smoothly, albeit rather dully for Sybil. There were few people whom she regarded as friends, the term 'friend' being used to refer to people she spoke to amicably. She only engaged in trivial conversation with the guests, feigning delight and amusement at what they chattered on about. Primarily, they asked Sybil about other people; how was Mary? What was Edith up to? Wasn't she still with Larry Grey?<p>

She did garner applause for her extravagant decorating endeavors, though she blushed and shook it off: after all, Tom had done so much as well, but he wasn't here to receive any recognition. This certainly was not a gathering which he would fit in – he'd stick out like a sore thumb – but with Sybil by his side, she was sure the other guests would speak to him civilly.

She had worn her favorite midnight-blue evening gown, delicately trimmed with silver strands that resembled spun sugar. The diamond drop earrings she was wearing weighed heavily down on her earlobes, but she liked the necklace shaped vaguely like a snowflake. Sybil hardly dressed excessively, but, on occasion, she enjoyed dressing up like a princess. Tom rarely saw her in such exorbitant finery, and she wondered how did he view her in diamond and dresses? Was she the same in his eyes, or was she someone else, a resemblance of the wealthy who reveled in silks and shimmering jewels?

Sybil felt alleviation from her boredom as the number of party-goers dwindled, and she was finally allowed to sneak off to bed. It was late and dark, and she hurried in stripping her dress and jewelry, buttoning her pyjamas afterwards so she would not feel too much of the cold air. Grunting with relief, she fell back on her pillow and tugged the hefty blanket close to her chin. She was asleep within minutes.

* * *

><p><em>Ting-ting.<em>

Sybil stirred in her slumber, her ears discerning soft sound before she was conscious.

_Ting-ting._

Grudgingly, she came to her senses. At first, she was unable to understand why she had been drawn out of sleep, but, just then, before she could collapse back onto her pillow, she heard something.

_Ting-ting._

She twisted a finger in her ear, half-believing that she was hearing things. It was much too early to be hearing sleigh bells — though –

_Ting-ting._

No, that wasn't the sound of sleigh bells. It was too singular, like the ring of only one small bell.

Sybil lifted herself up and leaned back on her elbows. She rubbed her sleep-caked face, the remnants of her makeup coming off on her palm. She never washed the stuff off properly. Looking around her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of the time on the clock. Nearly three in the morning.

"What the hell?" she blurted out. Who in the name of Rudolph was ringing a bell about at this time in — her eyes widened.

Oh no.

Adrenaline from an unknown source suddenly coursed through her. Sybil, completely disregarding the chilly air, slid out of bed and padded lightly to the door. She pressed her ear against the keyhole, clamping her hand on her mouth to stifle her loud breaths.

Why couldn't she hear anything now?

She turned the knob on her door with purposive slowness, waiting until it swung open before readying her ears to catch the bell-like tinkling again. The atmosphere outside her bedroom was still and cold, and it chilled the parts of her skin that were uncovered. _Where is it? Has it finally decided to reveal itself?_ Sybil knew, with the aura of foreboding that filled the corridors, that it was somewhere, waiting for her to come looking.

There was no way that she would venture out without some form of a weapon. Creeping along on her toes, she snuck towards her vanity table, hoping that inspiration for a suitable weapon would strike quickly. The problem was, if there was anything to utilize, she could hardly see through the dark, and she did not want to risk making a lot of noise searching about. Frantically, she struggled to remember what was on the table: a brush, a plethora of makeup containers and tubes, a few hair bands strung about. She was going to lose her bloody mind if she did not come up with something in time.

_If only there was a torch somewhere,_ Sybil thought, panic growing in her stomach. Was there a torch she could find quickly? She rubbed her temples as if it would stimulate her brain cells.

Her iPhone, her brain seemed to scream at her. It was no weapon, but it had a built in light, and for now it was all she had. Searching for it beside her bed, she ripped it out of the charger, turned it on, and enabled the small light.

Once more, Sybil resumed her search in the hallway. She realized she had not heard the slight tingling of Santa's small handbell, but she wasn't going to assume that it wasn't there. Moving as carefully as an animal avoiding a predator, she made her way down the corridor, past the empty bedrooms of Mary and Edith. She did not breath as she crept, quieter than a mouse, past the door to her parents' bedroom (though the two of them probably could not be awakened by a chemical blast). Every few steps she would stop and listen for that accursed bell, which, on a night like this, had ensnared her before. Only this time, she knew what she was up against, and she was now prepared.

She was at the top of the staircase now. Her heart was racing like never before as she waved her phone around, the light hitting the corners and the floor below her, but the fiendish statue was nowhere to be seen. Was it hiding in the shadows, waiting to jump onto her and slit her throat? How Sybil hated the suspense, feeling an impulse to run screaming back to her parents just as she did all those years ago.

_Stop being a baby, Sybil_, she scolded herself, _you must fight this demon! You can't __have it terrorizing this house any longer._

_Ting-ting._

It was downstairs. It wanted her to come down the stairs, or rather, it wanted her to come partially down before she lost her step and came tumbling down where it would smite her.

"I know what you're planning," Sybil whispered to the statue. "You can't fool me. I'm a grown woman now."

Gripping the bannister like a lifeline with her free hand, she took her first step downwards, ensuring both feet were flat before descending to the next stair. Steadily yet inexorably, she climbed down, closer to where the statue was loitering, expecting her to stumble and crack open her head. But she continued her downward descent, and as the lower level came closer, she became less afraid that she would meet her fate with a faceful of carpet. Even if she did not destroy it once and for all tonight, at least she would not die by its bell.

She made it. Sybil had to slap her hand to her mouth to prevent a burst of laughter from bubbling out. She had succeeded, she was still alive! The demon Santa must have been stamping his boots in annoyance at Sybil's small victory dance.

"Where are you, little bastard?" Sybil whispered, stunned at her own vicious mouth. "You see? You can't scare me anymore!"

She walked easier now that there was less risk of waking anybody up. The lower level smelled of the good food that had been consumed earlier, but Sybil would not let such wonderful scents distract her from her task. Her torch-phone flashed around each piece of musky furniture, into the corners and beyond, and she was ready to lunge for the statue and rip its tiny head from its body. Perhaps there was a cheese knife still lying abandoned on a table, or a lost fork. There was more chance of grabbing ahold of a weapon down here, though Sybil could not dismiss the possibility that Santa had nicked one as well.

"Aha!" she cried out, almost too loudly. There – some careless server had left a small knife on a sofa cushion. She scooped it up in her free hand and held it in a defensive position. That demon Santa better be well scared now. It was only a matter of time before it would reveal itself, perhaps to challenge her to a duel – which Sybil was a shoo-in to be the victor. She was much bigger, of course.

"What the fuck – !" she suddenly shrieked.

There it was, on the mantelpiece, standing with its bell raised. It was a foot above her head, and it stared down with pink eyes that seemingly glowed in the light of her phone. It was as angry as ever, leering at her, its sole intention apparent in its grimace.

"Hello again," she said to it. She held up the small but sharp knife. "I see you came early this year."

It did not move, but Sybil continued staring at it, trying not to be put off by those glowing eyes. It was testing her: surely it was confident that her courage would fail and she'd faint, thereby giving it a chance to do its evil. But Sybil was unyielding.

"You nearly killed Tom," she hissed. "Believe me, if you had killed him, you'd already be dead."

Its eyes seemed to be mocking her. In Sybil's eyes, its arm shifted a bit, the bell being positioned for assassination.

Sybil's arm snapped back, then thrust forward. The knife flew from her hand, tearing through the air towards that red, furrowed forehead. The blade did not stick in the demon's head; it bounced off, and for a nanosecond she despaired, but the force of the object was enough to send the figurine rocking back and forth. It tilted forward too far, and it tumbled over the edge of the mantelpiece, plummeting down to the floor far below, taking what seemed like seconds to Sybil. Santa toppled to the floor, head first, and it lay stunned before Sybil jumped forward, snatching the knife that had fallen to the ground, and smashing the blade against Santa's cherry-red nose. The entire face fractured, splintering off to fall into its empty head.

Sybil panted, kneeling stock-still as she inspected the statue for any lingering signs of life. But it was motionless, lying on the carpet like a dead animal. Its glowing eyes did not shine anymore.

"Well, you've given me a lot of trouble," Sybil said to the statue's corpse. "And to think that Tom did not believe you existed."

For good measure, she pushed the knife against the tiny bell, flattening it so it could no longer sound the single, deathly note.

* * *

><p><strong><em>What do you think? Was the statue ever possessed, or was it just Sybil's imagination? More importantly, is it really the end of demon Santa?<em>**


	23. Silver Watches

_December 23: Silver Watches_

_Pairing: Thomas/Jimmy_

_Rating: T for strong language and some angst coming from Thomas_

* * *

><p>Thomas had only just risen from bed, bleary eyed and thirsty for a cup of tea, when the doorbell rang.<p>

"What the hell?" he grumbled, plodding across the cold floor in his socks to the front door. There were only a few days until Christmas, and Thomas figured that if people had bothered to set their alarm clocks to some ungodly hour, a frantic shopping excursion would be in mind rather than banging on his door. He didn't have to work until after the new year, most of his Christmas shopping was done, so he therefore was taking the time to enjoy a semi-late morning (it was about half-past eight).

He unlocked the door and opened it as wide as a book spine. Jimmy was standing rather close, swaddled in a heavy jacket and a cobalt blue scarf. Thomas blinked away the specks of gunk in his eyes and opened the door completely.

Jimmy looked Thomas up and down; the latter man was only in a shirt that hadn't been ironed lately, boxer shorts, and thermal socks.

"Erm, Thomas?" Jimmy started hesitantly. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Nah, I was up already," Thomas said, shrugging.

"Oh. Well, you don't look very awake," Jimmy added jokingly.

"I'm not _completely_ awake. I haven't had anything to eat yet," Thomas explained. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Thanks, but I don't have very long. I'm catching the train in a few minutes," Jimmy said. "I'm going to my cousins' house for the holiday.I just came by to – to give you this."

Jimmy held out a small wrapped package. It wasn't much bigger than somebody's fist, but it was fairly weighty when Thomas took it from Jimmy.

"I – er, God Jimmy – what is this, a gold nugget?"

"Not exactly," Jimmy said, appearing rather bashful. "I hope you like it. I sort of guessed on what to get you – actually, I did have some help – but I wasn't completely sure –"

Thomas smiled at Jimmy, and the man quickly stopped his stammering sentences. "Really Jimmy, this is so thoughtful of you. I hope you didn't spend too much on me."

Jimmy's face grew red. "I did splurge some, but since you've been such a good friend to me recently, I thought you deserved something that costs the earth."

Thomas weighed the package in his palm, bobbing his hand up and down. He smiled just like a young child who was allowed to open presents before the big day. "Shall I open it now, or do it properly, on Christmas?"

"Whenever you prefer," Jimmy said. "Only – please don't judge me too harshly on it."

"Jimmy, why the fuck should I judge you on your Christmas gifts?" Thomas asked. "If it's any consolation, it's so considerate of you to buy something nice for me."

"How can you say it's nice when you haven't even opened it yet?" Jimmy asked, waving a hand towards the package.

"God, Jimmy, you can't just accept that I'm going to like it no matter what," Thomas said. "Answer me this: what would you say if I said I had a gift for you?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Jimmy answered, "I would say that I was flattered that you bought me something."

"I hope you'll stay true to your word," Thomas said. He disappeared from Jimmy's sight briefly. Jimmy stood awkwardly at the door, checking his watch to see if he'd make the train on time. But he was hardly left waiting for a whole minute before Thomas reappeared, holding a book in both hands. He offered it to Jimmy.

"I thought I'd wrap it this afternoon, but since you're leaving now, I suppose I ought to give it to you now," Thomas explained. "You can read it on the train."

Jimmy looked at the cover. _The Count of Monte Cristo._ He'd read it before, but he had lost his copy sometime during university, and somehow had never bothered to buy another copy. He must had mentioned to Thomas that he had enjoyed reading the book at some time, though he couldn't remember when.

"I _am_ flattered, Thomas," Jimmy finally said. "Usually people get me weird shirts or clever mugs, boring shit like that. But I really do like this, and I'm not bullshitting you."

"It's probably worth nothing compared you what's in that little box," Thomas said. "But I know you like adventure books, and it's a cool looking jacket, so I thought – you know, you'd enjoy reading it again."

"I'll definitely read it on the train," Jimmy said. "Thanks a lot for this."

"You're welcome. And have a good time at your cousins' place."

"I'll try, but most of them are duller than paint," Jimmy conceded.

"Then I suppose you'll have your book to keep you company," Thomas said. "You should hurry, or you'll miss the train."

"I know. Thanks again," Jimmy said. "Happy Christmas." He turned away from Thomas, clutching _Monte Cristo_ under his arm.

"Happy Christmas," Thomas called out. He watched Jimmy walk farther away, until he turned the corner at the end of the street. It was only then that Thomas closed the door and reached for the miniscule package he had left next to his keys. He turned it over in his hand, making a list in his head of what it could possibly be.

Heading back to the kitchen, where the kettle was just beginning to sing with steam, Thomas set the gift on countertop to prepare his morning cup of tea. He was satisfied that Jimmy appreciated the book. He had been wandering about the bookstore where _The Count of Monte Cristo_ had been standing upright on a table, and somehow a memory of Jimmy speaking, like an audio file, had surfaced. It could have purely been his imagination, but something had urged him to purchase the book for Jimmy. It had been quite costly, as it was a limited edition, but Thomas thought the sacrifice was worth it. It seemed a good bet and a good gift to get him, as it wasn't a generic anything. Nor was it an implication of anything romantic, as Thomas knew Jimmy was still uncertain about – well, anything concerning romance. Even if Thomas himself was convinced that they'd be alright together, he wasn't going to push Jimmy to do anything he didn't want to do. That would be a bad onset that would end with Jimmy's love life being totaled. No, he'd let Jimmy decide what he eventually wanted.

Thomas made his cup of tea and sat down at the table, pensively fingering the corners of the wrapping paper. To be honest, he was feeling a little tense towards the thought of opening Jimmy's gift. Thomas prided himself on knowing what people thought of others by the way they talked and dressed and such, and gift-giving was a capital indicator. By giving Jimmy the book, Thomas had communicated that he listened well to what Jimmy said, and that he cared enough to gift him with something other than a crude shirt.

But what did Jimmy have to communicate through his gift? That was what Thomas was unsure about.

Slowly yet inexorably, he began to pull apart the paper edges, trying his best not to tear the thin crinkled shell (he hated the sound wrapping paper made when it ripped). The package was indubitably professionally wrapped, which made it easier to undo the folded edges and thin strips of tape. After some time, Thomas had managed to free the compact silver box. He could easily lift the lid and peer inside to scrutinize what the mystery gift was now, but he was still tentative about doing so. He shook his head and scolded himself; he was acting like he was opening Pandora's damn box. Inhaling deeply, he grasped the edges of the lid between his fingers and pulled upwards.

"Oh … my … fucking … " Thomas couldn't even finish his profane exclamation on account of his breathlessness.

It was so much more precious than a lump of gold. It was a large model, crafted of steel that possessed the reflective power of silver. When Thomas picked it up – once he gathered enough courage to do so – it did not feel as heavy as it looked, though it was still fairly weighty. The watch face was overlain with jet black and pearly white, forming the Roman numerals to which the paper-thin needles pointed to. Thomas had to peer very closely to see all of the intricate details. He felt like he was holding something that cost more than everything in his flat put together, but when he tried to search the box for a price tag (so he could rebuke Jimmy for giving him a watch worth twice the national debt) he found that it had been blocked out by permanent marker.

Never had Philip given him something so valuable, and he knew how Thomas felt about clocks and watches. Even if his father had dabbled with time-telling products, he had never been able to afford something that resembled diamonds. Thomas was, in short, touched that Jimmy would go through so much trouble to please him this Christmas.

Smiling and blinking back tears of gratitude, Thomas reached for the note that Jimmy had stuck in the box. It was hastily scribbled, and from the shakiness of the script, it was evident that Jimmy had been blushing furiously when he had written it.

_I hope you don't think this is too pretentious of a gift. I know you probably got a lot of expensive gifts from Philip Dickhead in the past but I really do think you deserve this. Happy Christmas._

On the paper, just below Christmas, was a small indent, as if he had pressed a pen too hard. Thomas turned the note over.

_Do you want to get together after New Year's?_


	24. We Wish You a Merry Christmas

**Omigod omigod omigod! Finally! It's done! (cue victory fanfare) And right before valentines day, too *wink wink nudge nudge***

* * *

><p><em>Title: We Wish You a Merry Christmas<em>

_Pairing: Sybil/Tom;Edith/Michael;Mary/Matthew _

_Rating: T for brief strong language_

* * *

><p>Tom's first words to Sybil after he drove up to the garage at Downton were, "Would you care to explain this to me?" He held up his phone for her to see.<p>

_Text from: Sybil Crawley 06:14_

_Get your arse over here._

Sybil glanced sheepishly at the phone. "Well, it was important – and you came, so …"

Tom chuckled. "Really Sybil, I understand, but do you have to send me a text at six in the morning that sounds like something my old history teacher would say."

"Your old history teacher said stuff like 'get your arse over here?'' Sybil asked.

Tom shrugged. "I was always late to class, and he'd see me sprinting through the halls towards the classroom. He liked to shout at students."

"Bully for that," Sybil said sardonically.

"Anyway, why did you call me out here early in the morning? Is your family even up yet?"

Sybil waved a hand dismissively. "I doubt they'll be up soon. They never start to wake up until after eight. But I didn't want to be interrupted during the day when there'll probably be last minute stuff, because I have something to show you."

She pulled the automatic garage door-opener out of her jacket pocket and pushed it. The garage was far enough from the main house that hardly anyone would hear the doors open, even if it did sound like the inner workings of a motorbike factory. She turned on the light and motioned for Tom to come inside.

"Whew! I think it's colder in here than outside," observed Tom. He sidestepped around the tightly packed automobiles as if they were models displayed at an exhibition.

"Relax Tom, I doubt you'll set off the alarms," Sybil said, moving further down the garage.

"No, but I imagine your parents will catch my scent," Tom remarked.

"You aren't a dog," scolded Sybil. "They're getting used to you."

"They tolerate me," Tom corrected.

Sybil let out a short, high whistle. "That might change soon."

"How do you mean?"

Sybil was ahead of Tom, so he could not see her face that disclosed a playful secret. "You'll see," she said in a sing-song voice.

At the very end of the garage, Sybil stopped in front of the last of the cars. It was one of the cheaper ones, though still pricey on a normal person's budget, but anyone could drive it about without being taken for a rich someone-or-other. She patted the bonnet, and the metal ringing resonated throughout the cave-like garage like a timpani.

"Well ... here it is!" Sybil said proudly, spreading her arms like a game-show host revealing a grand prize. "Merry Christmas!"

"Wait – what?" Tom asked.

Sybil growled, pretending to be huffy. "No, Tom, 'wait,what?' is not how you're supposed to react to your Christmas present."

Tom was baffled. "You don't mean –," he pointed to the car, "that this is my Christmas gift?"

"Yes!" Sybil nodded enthusiastically.

Tom was, in the lightest sense, amazed. "How is that – how – ?"

Sybil giggled at Tom's sudden bewilderment. "We almost never use this car anymore; my sisters and I drove it mostly when we were learning how to drive. But since it just sits here so lonely, I asked Papa if I could give it to you. I don't think he minds."

"Sybil, I –"

"And listen, your old car is going to collapse if you drive it another month. Might as well forget taking it in for repairs and have this one instead."

Tom took one more gleeful look at the car before throwing his arms around Sybil. He was positively beaming.

"Sybil, thank you so much." He sounded very close to tears.

"That's not the only thing I have to show you," Sybil said. "There's more."

"Huh?" Tom said, releasing her. "Sybil, how many gifts do you think you can give me?"

"It's not exactly a gift per se, but I thought I might show these to you all at once," Sybil said. She unlocked the passenger-side door and opened it wide. Tom walked the long way around the car, inspecting it (it was in better condition than any car he had ever owned) and looked inside, where Sybil was pointing.

It was a shoebox that was sitting on the leather seats. Taking Sybil's cue, he took out the box, hearing something shift inside. He slid his fingers underneath the lid and lifted it..

There were several miniscule, mismatched splinters of a rosy flesh colouring surrounding a larger chunk of red and white that shaped a recognizable fur suit. There was also a small, inwardly bent fragment of a golden metal. It was quite damaged, as there was no paper or bubble wrap in the box, but Tom could still make out what the various pieces were meant to form.

"So, the demon Santa Claus has met his end," Tom said, laughing.

"It was a valiant battle," Sybil proclaimed.

"I wish I could have seen it," Tom said. "I bet you were quite the warrior."

"I sure was. But was I supposed to call you in the middle of the night while you were miles away?" Sybil asked. "Speaking of, why did you go off like that without telling me?"

"Oh! I suppose I should show you now." Tom placed the shoebox back in the car – his car – and grabbed Sybil's hand, leading her back outside to his old car. He opened the boot and rummaged through the many articles, mostly boxes of various objects. Sybil believed he used his car as a storage space, considering his flat was lacking in considerable room. When he pulled his head out he was holding a compact box, big enough for a small piece of jewelry.

"Open it, if you like." Tom offered the box to Sybil, and she took it, her fingers rushing to open the box. Her head was filled with such crazy ideas as to what was in the box, but her expectations were not confirmed until she had managed to unclasp the lid and reveal the treasure inside.

"Golly, Tom," she gasped. "You went all the way to Manchester for this?"

"It's called a Claddagh ring. One of my cousins directed me to a place – in Manchester – that makes custom ones. So I went there to see some for myself, and pick one out for you," Tom explained.

Sybil fingered the small band. It was a rose-gold hue, cast in the form of two hands clasping a heart capped with a crown. It was not ostentatious, as many other rings that Sybil came across in her own home, and it did not look extremely costly, but Sybil felt as if she were holding something of the utmost value. Perhaps because Tom had given it to her.

Tom pointed to each of the small icons on the band. "The hands represent friendship, the crown means loyalty, and the heart means –"

"Love," Sybil finished. "Tom, this is so wonderful of you." She could not remember a single moment in her life when she had been given a present with as much meaning and sincerity behind it.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before why I left all of a sudden," Tom said apologetically.

"It doesn't matter now," Sybil said. "I just can't believe this." She felt like crying and smiling all at once. She pulled off one of her gloves and slid the ring onto her finger. "It's absolutely gorgeous."

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you like it. I wasn't sure if it was right for you."

"There's nothing more right for me than your love, Tom," Sybil said. "If that's all I got for Christmas, I'd be happy for the rest of my life."

The two of them shared a long kiss as the frigid air blew about and the sun finally began to reveal itself behind the slate-grey clouds. When Sybil's parents finally awoke, they wouldn't see their daughter for hours. She was too busy sitting alongside Tom as he drove her up and down the country roads, each without a care in the world, but with each other's love and loyalty. And the remains of a demon Santa in the back seat.

"We're fortunate that that thing is dead," Tom commented, jerking his head to the shoebox sliding about as he made a turn. "I wouldn't want it to kill us while I'm driving."

"Just as well I flung a knife at it," Sybil said. "But I think I'll burn it, just to be safe."

"It's easier to dump it in the lake, I think," Tom said.

"Then let's go do that now," Sybil said eagerly. "C'mon, it's only a little ways off. We'll break the ice and send the little bugger down to its watery grave."

Why does Sybil get so macabre when she's talking about the Santa statue? Tom thought. He knew the roads around Downton well, and there was a dock very close to where they were now. He took a sharp left and stopped the car on the frozen ground.

"You take the box out while I try and break the ice," Tom said. He and Sybil got out of the car, and Tom took the ice pick out of the boot to serve as the ice-breaker tool. He had just made a hole the size of a saucer when Sybil came running with the shoebox. She was breathing so hard that there was a small cloud in front of her face.

"Careful, Sybil, you don't want to trip —"

"Tom!" Sybil practically shouted. She thrust the shoebox towards him. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Santa! He's not in the box! Look!"

Tom took the shoebox, but even before he opened it, he knew it wasn't in there: the box was too light, and he didn't hear the contents shifting.

"No, no, no," Sybil was muttering under her breath. "I was sure it was dead! I was absolutely certain! Who can survive having their face crushed into a thousand tiny pieces?"

"Sybil, just calm down," Tom said. To be honest, he himself was feeling a little panicked. He had seen the broken statue in the box, and he knew he hadn't taken them out when he had moved the shoebox. Unless Sybil was executing some sort of prank, there was no way that the broken statue could have gone missing, and judging from Sybil's panic, this was no joke.

"Let's just go back to the house," Tom suggested. "We should figure this out someplace warmer."

Sybil nodded rapidly, shivering. "God, I really should have burned it when I had the chance."

"Aye, that probably would have been a good move," Tom said.

Once they were in the car, Tom started up the heater; Sybil's teeth were chattering like a rattle. The combined noises inside the vehicle disguised the silvery, musical tinkling of small bell.

* * *

><p>London seemed as jittery as a child waiting for Christmas day – the shopping centres were packed with all sorts of people, scrambling with their last minute purchases. Edith, luckily, had finished her shopping several days prior, but she could still be found amongst the masses of young and old, all of various classes and livelihoods. She loved to observe the brief moments of time when the only worry that the entire city held was the concern of the coming holiday. She had gone out during the afternoon, and was basking in the warm air of a coffee house, simultaneously watching passerby dragging heavy paper bags and small children behind them and thinking about when to start making her and Michael's Christmas eve dinner.<p>

The sound of her mobile ringing interrupted her idyllic tranquility. At first, Edith believed it was her parents, wishing her happy Christmas and the like, but it was number at Michael's office. That morning, Michael had told her he was 'stepping into his office for a short time,' but he would rejoin her in the afternoon. Edith had been slightly vexed at Michael going to work when she wanted as much of him as she could get in the short time they had together, but she would not appear selfish or cling to him like film.

"Michael? Hello? Is everything alright?" she asked, hoping the matter was not a call of distress.

"Edith, are you busy right now?"

"No, but what's the matter?"

"Nothing's wrong, it's just that I'd like you to come to my office when you weren't occupied with anything."

"I'm not busy with anything. Would you like me to come now?"

"If you can. I'll wait for you."

"Michael, what do you need me for?"

"I just – I want to show you something, and I don't think I could bear putting it off until tomorrow." To Edith, Michael sounded almost giddy, even though she herself was puzzled.

"I'm on my way," she said, before hanging up and leaving the coffee house.

She arrived at Michael's publishing group by cab twenty minutes later. She knew the place well, having been there most times she went to London to see Michael. It would be possible for her to retrace the path to Michael's office, on the first floor, with her eyes closed. When she opened the door, however, he wasn't behind his desk, as she had expected.

Edith's perplexion increased, and she poked her head back outside.

"Excuse me," she tentatively asked a man, who was typing rapidly at his desk two paces away. "Did you see where Mr Gregson went?" It was unusual for her to pronounce his name as 'Mr Gregson,' and she was well aware it made her sound like a stranger.

The typing man shrugged. "He stepped out just a few minutes ago. I think you can wait inside," he answered, cocking his head toward the office door.

Edith nodded a thank you and went back inside, shutting the door behind her. The busy sounds of keyboards being typed, the ringing of phones, and the incessant chatter of employees were effectively muted. When would Michael be back? More importantly, what was he up to? Much as she hated admitting it, Edith was aware she did not know enough about Michael to calculate his moves or know what he was thinking. Her own mother could read her husband's mind even before he got out of bed, but Edith hadn't even lived a full month with Michael waking up beside her every day. It was not to say that she didn't love him, but she wished she had more time to spend with him, for even now she knew that time was fleeting quickly, and who could say when the day would be when she'd have him by her side without the end in sight?

Edith was pushed out of her moody absorption by the sound of the door swinging open. Michael entered, a smile spread from ear to ear. He was holding a large yellow envelope, which he handed to Edith before sitting down.

"What is this?" Edith asked. "Is this the great matter of which you couldn't tell me?"

"It is," Michael replied, still grinning. Edith could not help but laugh at Michael's giddiness. He seemed more anxious to see her open it than she was.

"I just got it this morning, and I was having it verified, double-checking it to make sure it was all correct," Michael said. "I thought I should wait until tomorrow since this is – well, one of – my Christmas gift to you."

"Really?" Edith asked.

She tore open the envelope and pulled out the set of papers inside. "You're going to have to explain this all to me. I don't have time to read all of the fine print."

"In short," Michael began, tapping the front leaf, "when you sign here, on this line, I give you power of attorney. When you sign the dotted line on – the fifth page, I think – you will legally own half of this publishing company."

The envelope in Edith's hands slid to her lap with a resounding flap.

"I want you to do great things with this company, with me or without me, and I believe you deserve every bit of this. I absolutely trust your judgement," Michael continued, ignoring the evident shock on Edith's face.

"Michael, I – I don't – know anything about being power of attorney or whatever it is," Edith said, in spite of her utmost exhilaration.

"I'll help you learn, but I'm sure you'll figure it all out quickly," Michael said.

Michael had just given her something that not even Edith had dreamed she would ever receive: the power to shape her own livelihood. Before, she had imagined a perpetual existence at home, commanded over by her father, cursed never to find someone who answered her deepest wishes. Even if Papa never wholly approved of Michael, he could not deny her the faculty she would hold once she put her name on the papers. Sitting in Michael's office, with her new life just a pen scribble away, seemed too surreal for even her to envision as reality.

"Does it seem like too much?" Michael asked. "I probably should have asked –"

"Why would you need to ask?" Edith answered. "This what I've wanted for a long time. Not specifically this, of course, but, deep down, you're giving me more than what this paper gives me. I could have dreamed of nothing better."

Michael was nothing short of overjoyed, but Edith was downright ecstatic, almost to the point of tears. She tossed the papers back to Michael, who caught them just before she planted a buoyant kiss on his lips.

"Give me the pen," Edith said, and, with Michael's fountain pen between her fingers, signed her name with the flourish on each of the dotted lines.

"Now," Michael said, clapping his hands together. "I hope you weren't planning a too-delicious dinner for tonight. Not that I have anything against your cooking abilities, which I greatly appreciate."

"Now that you say it, no," Edith said. "What do you have in store for us?"

"A table at the Criterion with a full bottle of champagne for celebration purposes," Michael said. "Another one of my Christmas gifts to you, although the rest of them will have to come tomorrow."

"You really are too much," Edith remarked. "No wonder my father doesn't approve of you; you spoil me."

"If you call being spoiled, I call it taking you out for a good time," Michael said, kissing her hand.

"You'll have to let me go, so I have enough time to find something nice to wear," Edith said.

"Then I'll let you run home," Michael said. He could not wait to see her again this evening, blindingly beautiful and now, legally, a part of his world.

Edith felt like dancing in the street. For once in her life she did feel physically bound to anything any member of her family said to her, not solely about her love life, but about every aspect of her daily being. Michael had given her opportunity. She did not have any set-in-stone plans for the future, but that did not matter, as there were so many paths laying in front of her now, wide and pure like the banks of snow lining the road.

* * *

><p>The sky above was as black as tar, but the streets of New York remained as bright as a galaxy and as busy as the final day for shopping could ever be. Matthew, Mary, and her grandmother were standing close to the entrance of the Apple store, recently exited from the church service. Martha had insisted that they take one last Christmas eve stroll down Fifth avenue, much to Mary's chagrin (her stockinged legs felt like ice lollies).<p>

"You two realize that this is a first for the both of you?" Martha quipped.

"How do you mean?" Mary and Matthew said simultaneously.

Martha scoffed. "Are you both really as boneheaded as you're acting?"

"I'm not," Mary was quick to say. "I'm not so sure about Matthew."

"Mary!"

"I am not being serious," Mary said jokingly.

"What I was going to say," Martha interjected, "is that, and correct me if I'm wrong, is that this is the first Christmas away from home for either of you."

"I think that's pretty true," Matthew said. "I'm not so sure about Mary."

Mary glared at Matthew while adding, "No, no one in the family was very partial to spending Christmas away from home."

"Edith's in London with Michael Gregson," Matthew pointed out. "So it's not a completely outlandish idea."

"However she managed to convince Papa on that, I can't even hazard a guess," Mary said. "I wonder how she's doing."

"Let's hope everybody's having a lovely Christmas Eve," Matthew said, before Mary could add anything smug.

"I know I'm having a marvelous time," Martha said, "even over the sound of your bickering."

"We're not bickering!" Mary pretty well shouted.

"Mary, I was married for longer than you have walked this earth, trust me in my knowledge of the act," Martha said pointedly.

Matthew cleared his throat. "May I suggest we hurry back home? We can continue our arguments somewhere warmer."

"That's something I agree on," Mary said, who had been shivering noticeably due to her near-bare legs. She frequently claimed to have a frozen heart, but she could not stand being out in the frigid air without proper garments, no matter if she was in England or America. Until she found herself back at the penthouse, wrapped up in a thick blanket and clutching a steaming mug of tea, she wasn't sure if she was ever going to feel her legs again.

The room where the Christmas tree was situated was bathed in a glow like a halo. Mary and Matthew were sitting together on the sofa, turned towards the tree, while Martha was lounging in an armchair close to the tree with her feet propped up on the coffee table (Mary could not help but wonder if her grandmother was purposefully situating herself apart from her and Matthew, or if she was just being oversuspicious).

"If I say so myself, you two did a fantastic job decorating the tree," Martha said proudly. "I did not think it could be so well trimmed, especially since it was causing a lot of trouble when the men were trying to set it up."

Mary sniggered at the memory. Matthew raised an eyebrow. "What happened, exactly?"

Martha casually shrugged. "Oh, it did not want to stay upright. It fell over a few times, I think because the stand was broken."

"I still think it's a bit crooked," observed Mary. "You might want to be careful, Grandmama, or it'll fall over on a vase that you actually like."

"Yes, and speaking of that," Martha said, looking pointedly at Matthew, "Mary mentioned that you broke a vase when you got into a fight once. When did that happen?"

Matthew suddenly appeared very sheepish. "That's an – odd story."

"I won't be too shocked by anything you say," Martha assured him.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Grandmama, it wasn't anything terribly juicy –"

"Oh? So you were there?" Martha said, looking like a journalist about to dive into something front-page worthy.

"As a matter of fact, it was in the library at Downton, maybe a half a year ago," Matthew said. "And yes, Mary saw everything."

"Please don't tell me you were fighting," Martha joked, feigning disturbance.

"No, our fights are purely verbal," Matthew ascertained. ("I'm not sure, sometimes I feel as if I ought to smack you," Mary said under her breath.)

"Mary was in the library with Richard Carlisle, and I heard shouting, so I thought I might investigate," Matthew began. "I was afraid he was threatening you," he said to Mary.

"He was, in a way," Mary said. "But it was just more of the usual, 'do as I say because I said so,' 'I'll print you as a whore,' and shit."

"Oh God," breathed Martha. "What a bastard."

"So, I came in, and for some reason Carlisle says to me some crap about Lavinia Swire. I could tell he was just trying to get me angry, though I can't say why. He enjoys ruining people's lives, though, so perhaps he was just engaging in some sadistic amusement."

"Lavinia was the sweetheart that passed last year, wasn't she?" Martha asked. "She sounded like a thoughtful girl, according to Mary."

"She was quite lovely. She got pretty sick right before last Christmas, and of course that was around the same time that Carlisle started blackmailing Mary."

All three were silent, with Mary and Matthew remembering the pain of the previous winter. Martha allowed them the few seconds of quiet before asking, "So, back to the fight, what ticked you off?"

"You know, I don't even remember what exactly he said that pulled the pin, but maybe it was just the notion that he was standing around intimidating Mary that I couldn't stand," Matthew said. "But I suppose I threw the first punch, and it turned out into an outright brawl."

"And in the middle of it all, you broke a vase," Martha said.

"Luckily, we fell on a rather ugly one, so there wasn't too much trouble with that," Matthew responded with a grin.

"It's amazing the two of you stopped eventually," Mary remarked. "You were at each other like a pair of wolves."

"Well, when boys fight, they go at it with full energy, so they're huffing and puffing after two minutes. Maybe less," Martha declared. "Girls can last much longer, believe me."

"Grandmama, how do you know that?" Mary said teasingly. "Is there something you want to share with the group?"

"No, as matter of fact, there is nothing I want to share with the rest of the group," Martha said ironically, swinging her feet off of the coffee table. "And before you try and force me to spill the beans, I'll say goodnight."

Mary got up from the sofa to kiss her grandmother goodnight. As soon as Martha left the room, Mary and Matthew shared a look or relief.

"Alone at last," Matthew said. "I didn't think we were going to have another moment to ourselves."

"Believe me, tomorrow will be chaos," Mary said, flopping back down on the sofa beside Matthew. "Grandmama gets more excited for these things than a herd of five-year-olds."

"But I hope it will be a good kind of chaos," Matthew said. "After all, tomorrow is Christmas day."

Mary sighed. "It's just so weird for me," she confessed. "I've never spent Christmas day away from home. I'm so used to waking up in my own bed and seeing the tree where it usually is and eating the same food that I'm afraid it won't feel real to me."

"That might not be true," Matthew said, in his attempt to console her. "Perhaps, when you wake up tomorrow, it'll feel like Christmas, only in a different setting."

"I don't know," Mary sighed. "I've always associated Christmas with what happens at home: all those garish ornaments, the snowy fields, even that little old figurine that Sybil is scared to death of. It's what I see each and every year, so when I don't see them, my brain doesn't seem to make any connections."

"Hmm," Matthew murmured.

"But it helps that you're here," Mary continued. "Reminds me that I'm not in a completely different world."

Matthew chuckled softly. "I'm glad my extended sentence here hasn't made anything too wretched for you. After all, you did come here of your own accord."

"Don't say that; I never would have dreamed of living here, had the circumstances been different," Mary said. "I'm only here because Carlisle was threatening to my name and the word 'slut' in the same article just because I rejected him."

"That being said, I'm not sure he'll keep his word," Matthew pointed out. "If he did so, there would be another article published containing his name and the word 'misogynist.'"

"I think it has more to do with what you did," said Mary, with a shine in her eye.

She gave Matthew a light, modest kiss on his cheek, and he returned it with a longer kiss on her lips. Mary did not feeling even the slightest twinge of embarrassment, even though she normally would at this display of affection. She did not pull away until the clock began to chime, ringing out eleven times.

"I think it's time that both of us went to bed," Mary said. "Tomorrow is Christmas, after all."

Matthew nodded in agreement, failing to suppress a yawn. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Of course," Mary said, her voice growing quiet, as if she were about to divulge a secret. "I want to be the first one to wish you a happy Christmas."

"Well, that's odd. I thought I would do the same with you," Matthew said.

"You'll have to wake up early, if you're to beat Grandmama to it," Mary said.

"I'll be sure to do so," Matthew promised.

The two of them separated to their respective bedrooms. Outside, the snow began to fall again, and the city began to quiet down. At the same moment in time, they lay down to sleep, and their thoughts rested on each other, almost mirroring each other. Mary was saying to herself that, no matter what she would find under the tree from Matthew, his greatest gift to her was his presence in her life, to come back to her when she had most missed him. Unbeknownst to her, Matthew was lost in that same thought: fate had seemed tricky to him previously, but it had truly been the most lucky thing he would ever experience.

* * *

><p><em>That was the Christmas that would be remembered for years to come, when hearts were broken and repaired, love was confessed and made true. The greatest gifts given and received were ones of hope for an auspicious future as well as reminders of memories of happier days. Love was as constant as the blankets of snow falling over the countryside of Yorkshire, the streets of London, and the skyscrapers of New York.<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>I do not believe I will ever attempt something like this again. It was so much trouble not having time when I thought I would have it, and then getting ill so I couldn't think to write. But for all of you who still kept up with this story long after Christmas was over, the kudos to you. The support you give kept me going. So, thank you all!<strong>_

_**Honestly, though, I will be brokenhearted to stop writing about Sybil's Demon Santa, because right now I do feel as if he's a part of the DA fandom. Perhaps a spin-off is in order?**_


End file.
